


Just a Glimmer

by 17daybreak



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Bucky Barnes, Reader-Insert, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson is a Saint, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29984883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17daybreak/pseuds/17daybreak
Summary: The reader is an enhanced individual, gifted with the ability to teleport herself. Newly recruited to the Avengers initiative, she’s given her first assignment: find Bucky Barnes. This series begins in 2015, before the events of CA: CW, and will end following the events of Avengers: Endgame. (The timeline of events will get a bit non-canonical later on, but it will still follow pretty dang closely with the MCU timeline.)(series originally posted on my tumblr @sventeen-daybreak)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	1. Welcome to the Avengers, Kid

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a looooong, slow burn, so if you like that sort of thing, just hang in there with me!

You feel his eyes on you as you nudge the refrigerator door closed with your hip.

“Nice pajama bottoms,” Tony quips over his open laptop. “Old Navy have a special?”

“Christmas gift from my college roommate,” you offer, walking past his spot sitting at the kitchen island to place your bowl of Frosted Flakes on the dining table.

“Well, I have to say,” he began to deadpan, “The neon kittens really compliment all the holes. I mean, come on… what are you doing with your salary? You’d think you could squeeze some room in the budget for a pair of pajama bottoms. I thought our compensation package was quite generous myself.”

You glance down at your pants before taking a seat in front of your cereal bowl—he wasn’t exactly wrong. It had been a couple of years already since you’d graduated college, and your pajama bottoms had certainly seen better days.

“Okay, point made,” you say in between bites of your cereal. “I’ll add new pajamas to my shopping list. Maybe I’ll check out some of those Old Navy online sales.”

There was a glint in Tony’s eyes. He rubbed at his mouth in an attempt to hide that he had wanted to laugh. He didn’t allow himself to show his amusement at your banter.

“Alright, well, that was fun,” Stark says, closing his computer and turning to face you. It seems he’d reached his tolerance for small talk. “Rogers and Romanoff report that you’ve been excelling in all of your training. Kicking ass, taking names, all of that. You’re good, by all accounts… including mine.”

You rest your spoon against the ceramic bowl, giving his words your full attention.

He continues, “And of course, my account’s the most well-funded, which makes it the most important. That’s why I thought I should be the one to tell you.”

He didn’t try to hide the smile overtaking his face now as you asked, with perhaps a bit too much eagerness, “Tell me what?”

“Welcome to the Avengers, kid.”

Leaping to your feet in excitement, you stumble over your words. “I don’t even know what to say—”

“How about ‘Thank you, Tony, for recruiting me in the first place?’ I think that’d be a good start,” he teases.

He jests, as you’ve come to learn is typical for Tony Stark, but you really are grateful. You didn’t know where you would be if Tony hadn’t come waltzing into your office nearly a year ago. You hadn’t even been sure, then, what you were truly capable of doing.

“Thank you, Tony,” you say in earnest. “Thank you for bringing me here and for seeing something in me.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get all sentimental on me now. It was hard not to see you, what with all the viral news coverage.” He says, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder. Patting you on the back as he exits the compound’s kitchen, he adds, “By the way, Rogers wants to see you once you’ve downed your… Fruity Pebbles.”

“Frosted Flakes,” you correct him.

He’s already approaching the elevator as he calls over his shoulder to you. “That’s what I said!”

You finish your breakfast uninterrupted, in no rush to catch up with Steve just yet. Officially an Avenger, huh? Washing your dish out in the sink, you wonder if you should text your mom. Technically, you’ve just been promoted, and kids typically share that kind of news with their parents.

Setting aside the white ceramic bowl to dry, you decide that you would send your mom a text this evening, maybe before bed. She’d be excited for you, even if she was a bit worried about her baby girl becoming ‘one of earth’s mightiest heroes.’

For now, though, Steve Rogers was waiting for you.

* * *

“What’s that?”

“Jesus,” Steve startles in his seat at the long, sleek conference table. There’s enough seats in the room for every recruit and Avenger on the team, but this morning the room is empty, save for you and Steve. “If you’re going to teleport around the compound, you’ve at least got to properly announce yourself when you enter a room.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, committing yourself to not laugh at the thought of you making Steve Rogers jump. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Steve sighs. “I know, but would it kill ya to at least teleport outside the door and then maybe just… knock?”

“Good idea,” you smile, tapping your pointer finger to your temple. “I’ll commit that to memory for now on.”

“Good,” Steve says, and he can’t help but to offer you a small, though maybe still slightly exasperated, smile back. “I do have to admit that I’m glad to see our newest Avenger has become so comfortable with her skillset.”

Seeing you beam with pride, he adds, “Congratulations, kid. Glad to have you on the team.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” and you mean it. “Or Nat.”

He nods, taking in your gratitude knowingly. You were a damn good kid, and he knew it. Your eyes wander back to the dossier in front of him.

“So, what is this?”

“It’s an assignment.”

“Oh?” You wondered aloud. You had never gone out into the field by yourself before. “An assignment just for me?”

He must have sensed your eagerness, or perhaps he just saw it written plainly all over your face, because he placed his large hand over it almost protectively for a moment before finally sliding it over to you.

Before you could begin to read the files, a serious shift in the tone of his voice demanded your attention. “Y/N, I need you to understand that this assignment is… personal… to me. It’s important.”

“Okay.” You look into his eyes, gleaning from them just how important this is to him. “Does this… does this have anything to do with what Sam’s been working on?”

“Yes.” If Steve is surprised that you know about Sam’s side missions, he doesn’t let on.

He watches silently as you begin to leaf through the dossier, scanning the assortment of files and documents. Attached with a paperclip is a series of photographs that catch your eye immediately. Many of them are grainy surveillance photos. The first features a man with long brown, unkempt hair donning a blask mask. His expression is unreadable while carrying what appears to be a high-caliber rifle. In the next, it’s apparent that the man has a metal arm. There’s a distinct, red star etched onto the arm. You glance up at Steve, and his eyes are looking for recognition in yours. You know this man.

“The Winter Soldier?” You half ask, half mouth the words.

Steve shakes his head to confirm.

He wanted you to chase down the Winter Solider? One of Hydra’s most successful assassins? He’d been a hit man for Hydra longer than you’d been alive on this earth. You had even seen the leaked CCTV footage on YouTube after the incident in DC last year. Steve couldn’t possibly think you would be able take on the Winter Solider on your own, could he?

You’re starting to sweat a bit when Steve gestures for you to keep looking through the photographs. After wading through a few more surveillance photos, you come across one that you instantly recognize—you’d seen it maybe dozens of times before. It’s the same one they’d used in history books, documentaries, and at the Smithsonian.

Among the surveillance photos of the Winter Solider, there was an old photograph of James Buchanan Barnes. It was his enlistment photo.

Of course, you had known the stories about Captain America, his childhood best friend Bucky Barnes, and the Howling Commandos before you had ever even met the man behind the shield himself. It was impossible to go through public school in the US without learning about them—Captain America’s sacrifice arguably made him a greater face of the American war effort than even President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Hell, you had even watched two really terrible Lifetime movies about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes with your mom when you were still in high school.

Looking at the enlistment photo of Barnes now, you remembered how dirty the television network had done him in casting his actors. He was quite handsome, evident from his enlistment photograph, and the movie actors had not come close to conveying that.

“Bucky Barnes?” You questioned aloud, looking to Steve for answers. When you met his eyes, something clicked… but it couldn’t be. “Steve, are you saying—?”

He nodded. His features with steady, not betraying any emotion. Something swam within the blue of his eyes, however. Was it pain?

“But Bucky Barnes died in—,” you began.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Steve cut you off. “He died. At least, I thought he did… until he was taking shots at me in DC last summer.”

You realized the look in his eyes was more than just pain. It was haunting. He had seen a ghost.

“Oh, god, Steve. I’m so sorry.”

You reach out and place your hand atop his without even thinking. Your friend—not your boss, not your captain—is hurting. He doesn’t recoil at your touch, and you internally breathe a sigh of relief that he hadn’t thought you had crossed any boundaries.

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you, truly. Your best friend in all the world, right in front of you after you thought you’d never see him again, and he doesn’t even know you. Steve, I’m—,”

Steve suddenly pulls away his hand from underneath your own, and you worry that you’ve offended him until he begins to shake his head and a tiny, incredulous laugh escapes him.

“That’s the thing—he recognized me.”

“But… he tried to kill you,” you say, realizing after that maybe it had been a little too bluntly.

“He saved me,” Steve corrects you. “He pulled me out of the water. I would have died had he not done that. He knew me—he _knows_ me, Y/N. He’s not their assassin anymore, not the Winter Soldier. He’s just Bucky, and he’s out there somewhere.”

“And Sam’s been trying to help you find him,” you finally put it all together. Looking back over at the pile of surveillance photos, you ask, “Are any of these recent?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. Sam hasn’t had any luck.”

“And you think I will?”

Steve looks at you, willing a hopeful smile to don his features.

“I think you might.”

“Steve, I—I’m an infant. I’m a baby Avenger—I’ve never even gone into the field alone before.”

He lets himself laugh freely at this.

“Well, ‘baby Avenger’ or not, you know your way around Eastern Europe.”

“How’d you—?”

“Read your thesis,” he chuckles, pulling a stack of papers from a folder next to him and tossing them to you. Stapled neatly together is a copy of a paper titled: _International Political Negotiations and the Domestic Landscape of Eastern Europe: The Soviet Legacy and Socio-Political Attitudes_. “An Honors college grad, huh?”

You flush a bit. You’d expected that Steve and Natasha would have read your personnel file, but you really hadn’t given it much thought until now.

“Have to admit,” he says, smiling all the while, “It wasn’t quite like reading the Times, that’s for sure. You’re a smart kid.”

“Would’ve had my PhD by now,” you say a bit awkwardly, and as it’s coming out, you hope that Steve doesn’t pick up on the twinge of sadness in your voice.

If he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Steve returns to the folder he pulled your thesis from and turns his attention to another page.

“Studied abroad for a year in Poland, Romania, and the Czech Republic, too,” Steve reminds you. “Interned at the State Department’s Bureau of European and Eurasian Affairs in 2011 and with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s European Intelligence Division in 2012.”

“What is this?” You wonder aloud, laughing a bit at the absurdity of it. “Are you reading off my resume now?”

“In a way, I guess I am.” Steve smiles at you, shutting the folder now. You’re thankful that it seems he won’t be reciting any more pieces of your past for today. “I’m telling you why I need you on this assignment—why I think you can find him.”

“You think he’s somewhere in Eastern Europe?” You ask.

Steve nods, adding, “It’s where he’d feel the most comfortable, I think, having been kept there for the better part of the last seventy years.”

You can see the swimming waves of pain—and now something like guilt—return to the blue of his eyes once more. Seventy years was a long time to be Hydra’s play-thing. You glanced back down at the enlistment photo of Barnes and then again at the surveillance images. Hydra had taken that sparkle—the life—from his eyes. What else had they taken?

“Why not send Nat?” You ask, perplexed. “Sure, I can get by in Polish and Romanian, and my Czech is okay, but I’m no super spy.”

“Exactly,” Steve smiles. “You’re an academic. You’re—,”

“Plain? Mousy?” You clarify for him, taking a jab at yourself. Anyone who took a look at you could see you were certainly no Natasha Romanoff. Even if you’d become more lean and muscular with the constant training at the compound, you wouldn’t be rocking any skin-tight black suits anytime soon.

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve explained gently. “You won’t spook him. Plus, he knows Nat. He’d never let her get close enough.”

“Steve, I know this is important to you, and I don’t want to mess this up—,”

“You won’t,” he says seriously now. “I trust you. I’m asking you to do this because I _know_ that you can, Y/N. You’re a good kid, and you’ve become a damn good friend.”

It’s clear from the look on his face that he means it. He has that steely resolve on his face that you’ve seen him mostly reserve for missions or disagreements with Tony.

“Plus,” he adds, that tone of amusement from earlier spilling back into his voice with a smile, “You’re damn good at sneaking up on people.”

You smile back easily, leaning into the back of your chair. You bring the pencil in your hand up to your mouth and chew on the eraser—a bad habit you’d carried on since elementary school—while stuck in thought for a moment.

Obviously, you trusted Steve. You trusted his judgement—after all, you’d learned that you pretty much had to in this new gig. The Captain had never once led you astray on a mission yet. If he thought you couldn’t do this, he wouldn’t have asked.

Your eyes again returned to the photograph of Bucky Barnes, all those many years ago, a young man with the world before him. If he was still out there, if he could possibly be reunited with the one remaining person from his previous life after years of torture, shouldn’t you at least try?

Again, you looked over at the man sitting beside you, the man you had admired as a child and now considered a friend and mentor. You remembered the change in his eyes as he spoke of his best friend. Didn’t you owe this to him, too?

Removing the eraser tip from your mouth, you plastered a look of resolve across your own face.

“Alright, I’ll do it. Just tell me what comes next.”

* * *

Your phone had dinged, rousing you from your sleep. Eyes still heavy with the remnants of sleep, you reached for the phone on your nightstand.

3:47 AM.

Two texts from mom, one minute ago.

One read: “Congratulations, sweetheart!! So proud of you, my avenger!!!”

Followed by, “Come home soon? Love and miss you.”

Placing your phone back on its charger on the nightstand, you rolled over feeling a bit guilty. You hadn’t been home in ages—not since months before Stark had recruited you.

God, had it really been over a year since you’d seen your mom?

And now it would have to wait even longer—you would be leaving for Krakow first thing Friday morning. Well, tomorrow morning now, you thought, remembering it was now 3:47 AM on Thursday.

It wasn’t like your mom could come up for a visit at the compound, either. The place wasn’t exactly open to the public.

You missed her. You missed her a lot, you suddenly realized. You missed you brother, too. _God, he’s graduating in May this year_ , you remembered. You’d have to take time off for the commencement ceremony.

Awake now and unable to return to sleep with the weight of missing your family overwhelming you now, you tumble out of bed and sit at your desk for a moment, pulling out your small agenda book.

You hadn’t really needed to use it since being recruited for the Avengers program, and placing it on your desk reminds you of a time when it had once been filled with test dates and due dates for various papers and projects. Flipping to last March, you see evidence of who you once were and what your life used to be.

The dates and reminders marked in red ink abruptly end in the middle of the month—a life interrupted.

You shake the thoughts of it from your mind, instead flipping to May of this year and jotting down a reminder of your brother’s graduation date. Tearing the page from the agenda, you tack it onto the bulletin board above your desk, next to some photographs you’ve placed there.

You check the time on your phone again. 4:05 AM. Now’s as good a time as any for Frosted Flakes, you supposed.

Wrapping a robe around yourself, you relax your body for a moment while picturing the compound kitchen in your mind. In your mind, you see yourself standing there, at the kitchen sink. The image in your mind seemingly melds with reality, and you are suddenly standing in front of the sleek, stainless steel sink you had just seen in your mind’s eye.

“Never gonna get used to that,” Sam says suddenly from behind you.

You jump and turn around to see him grinning at you over a plate of fries.

“Somebody else scared your ass for once, huh?” He jokes. “About damn time.”

Rolling your eyes at him and nodding towards the plate of food in front of him, you ask, “Long night?”

“Yeah,” he says, not offering anything else but a fry he hands out to you. You walk over and take it, popping it into your mouth as you sit across from him at the table.

You can tell he doesn’t want to talk about whatever’s bothering him, and you won’t push him.

He eyes you, reading your face. He’s good at that.

“Long night for you too, huh?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Can I have another fry?”

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks while offering you another from his plate.

You shrug feebly, but you find the words spilling out of you all the same.

“I guess I just miss my family,” you tell him. “Haven’t seen them in over a year. We used to be so close, and now I communicate with my mom maybe once a week when she responds to my texts at three in the morning.”

“Hey, this might be a dumb question,” Sam begins, a smile creeping on his face. “But couldn’t you just… ya know… teleport home? Pop in for a bit and then teleport right on back here?”

“That’d be nice,” you huff. “I’d never have to buy plane tickets again.”

“Still might not have to,” Sam reminds you jokingly. “It’s pretty damn nice having access to Stark’s quinjets.”

“I guess that’s true,” you muse. “I’ve been working on… stretching… my ability, but the furthest I’ve been able to teleport so far has only been two states over. Part of the problem is that I’ve got to be able to see the place in my mind, really imagine myself in that space, you know?”

Sam nods, understanding what you’re explaining to him.

“I can close my eyes and imagine myself in front of the Eiffel Tower all day long, but I’m still not in Paris.”

“Sucks,” he acknowledges, offering you another fry.

“Yeah,” you admit dryly as you swallow the French fry down. “Maybe by next year, I’ll be able to teleport three whole states over.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. You’ve come a long way—you’re teleporting up and down this compound all day long. I remember how you were when you first came here.”

You grimaced. You remembered too.

“Couldn’t control it,” Sam reminds you.

A flush of red spreads to your cheeks as memories of those first few weeks at the compound return to you.

Sam notices and smoothly adds, “Still haven’t bested me yet, but you’re getting stronger every day. You’ve even managed to sneak up on Natasha a few times now, and that’s not an easy feat. When you’ve got a little more hand-to-hand training… yeah, now _that’s_ a girl-fight I’d like to see.”

He’s got that goofy, flirty grin on his face now—the one that’s typically glued there when Nat’s in the room.

“Shut up,” you laugh, throwing the fry in your hand at him.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” he jokes again as you both laugh. The thought of him eagerly sitting courtside to a matchup between you and Nat was easy to imagine.

You’re feeling lighter already, and there’s been a noticeable shift in Sam’s mood too. Laughter’s the best medicine, as they say.

An easy, comfortable silence overtakes the two of you as Sam continues to pick over his plate and you shuffle over to the counter to pour yourself a bowl of cereal.

Your back is turned to Sam still when he asks, “So, how are you feelin’ about leaving tomorrow?”

“Nervous, I guess,” you admit. “Mostly because I don’t want to come back empty-handed.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam sighs. “I was chasing every lead, using every connection, and I’ve got nothing after nearly a year.”

“I just don’t want to disappoint Steve.”

Carrying your bowl over to the table again, you see Sam giving you a knowing look.

“It’s not just that, though,” you add, and Sam arches an eyebrow, imploring you to go on. “It’s Bucky, too.”

He seems a bit surprised by this admission, but waits for you to finish chewing the spoonful of cereal you’d just shoved into your mouth to continue.

“I just think he deserves a shot at life, at redemption, you know? The war, Hydra… he and Steve had so much take from them.”

Sam nods, understanding.

He stands up, bringing his plate to the sink to wash it. When he’s finished, he comes over to pat you on the shoulder.

“I’m headed to bed—gonna try to catch a few Z’s before we have to hit the mat in a few hours. You should get some rest, too.”

You nod, assuring him you’ll at least try.

Just as he’s heading out the door, he hangs back for a moment.

“Hey,” he calls out softly, meeting your eyes. “I hope you find him.”

“Yeah,” you say, “Me too.”


	2. Here's to Hopefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just hang in there with me and enjoy the ride—we’ll be meeting Bucky in the next update!

“You’ve seen better days,” Natasha teases, her eyebrows arched and lips pursed in amusement at your appearance.

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically, working to tie your hair back into a ponytail. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Sam said you were up pretty late last night.”

You look over your shoulder to see Sam in conversation with Wanda. _Big mouth_ , you think as you admonish him in your head. 

“It’s your first solo assignment,” she says, warmth evident from her tone of voice and in her touch as she squeezes your shoulder. “It’s normal to be a bit nervous for your first time.”

She winks as she says it and you roll your eyes, but you can’t help but laugh.

“Oh, no need for all of that,” you joke with her easily, crossing the mat to begin taping up your hands. “My mom gave me ‘the talk’ about ten years ago.”

“What, when you were what, maybe five years old?” Steve quips as he enters the room with a clipboard. His mouth was set in a serious, straight line, but you could see the crinkles from holding back amusement were forming around his eyes.

“You’re just saying that because you’re like 100 years old,” you shoot back.

“Captain Rogers is 97 years old,” Vision corrects you in his ever helpful manner. Wanda flashes him an endearing smile.

“Nah,” Sam jumps in, grinning at the chance to tease you. “He’s saying that because you still get carded trying to see R-rated movies.”

“Do you really?” Nat asks, bemused, from behind you.

“It happened one time!”

Sam and Steve exchange looks, laughing between them at your admission.

“I’m not much younger than Wanda,” you remind them exasperatedly.

Wanda considers this for a moment, her head cocking to the side, and then asks, “Really?”

You scoff at her playfully. Thanks for the backup, Wanda.

“But you’re so tiny!” Nat quips affectionately, ruffling your hair. “How tall are you, anyway?”

“What?” You feign confusion. “That wasn’t in my personnel file?”

“Oh, it’s definitely there,” Steve laughs, setting his clipboard aside to help Sam roll out some more mats. “Pretty sure it says something about you being five feet tall.”

Sam’s back is turned to you, but you know he’s laughing to himself just from looking at the back of his head.

“Vision,” you say, turning to the android. “Remind me, how exactly does that Shakespeare quote about being tiny but mighty go?”

“I believe what Ms. Y/L/N is referencing is a line from William Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’,” Vision provides. “‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’”

“Thanks, Vision,” you say through a smile.

“Well,” Steve says, squatting down to pat the rubber mat on the floor in front of you. “Show us what you’ve got, Little Miss Fierce.”

Stepping onto the mat, your bare feet sinking slightly into the material, you square your shoulders across from Sam on the mat. 

“Lower your chin,” Natasha reminds you.

“Alright, Sam,” Steve gives the signal to begin sparring.

Sam comes in hot right off the bat, swinging at you with his right arm. You dodge him with ease. The two of you had sparred dozens of times now, and he always led with his right.

In the seconds it takes for him to draw back his right arm again, you’ve teleported to the opposite side of the mat, dodging his blow again. Teleporting to a spot right in front of you was as thoughtless as breathing now. You didn’t have to imagine yourself standing to Sam’s right—you instinctively knew that’s where you needed to be. Just as your heart knew to beat inside your chest without your conscious guidance, your mind knew to place your body at a fixed point in the room without so much as a thought. Your abilities were becoming more and more second-nature everyday.

Sam senses you on his side and quickly turns in an attempt to catch you with the swing of his left arm. Again, you duck, dodging it and teleporting back to where you’d been standing originally.

This routine goes on for several more minutes, with him taking a shot and you displacing yourself at different points around the mat to avoid the contact with his fist. There were a few times when Sam had managed to connect his fist to your arms, but it’s nothing serious. You’d even been able to get in a few blows yourself before disappearing and reappearing at another place on the rubber.

Sam was tiring, you could tell by the sweat forming above his brow, but he was never one to tap out.

He once again draws back the plane of his arm slightly, and anticipating the direction of his swing, you displace yourself slightly behind him. What you hadn’t been anticipating was Sam guessing where you’d might appear. Your reflexes aren’t quick enough to avoid the blow—he draws his arm backwards dramatically in your direction, forcefully elbowing you in the stomach.

A gasp escapes from your lips involuntarily as the impact sucks the wind out of your chest. The force knocks you to your knees, leaving you clutching at your abdomen. There’s an uncomfortable silence that falls over the room. Sam is watching you, along with everyone else, but you don’t dare look up to meet his eyes.

“She’s hurt,” Steve calls out, already moving towards you. Nat’s on his heels.

 _Actually_ , you think to yourself, _she’s pissed._

Before anyone knows what’s happening, you’re back on your feet again. Your midsection is screaming out to you in pain, but your mind is running on instinct and adrenaline without impediment. One second, you’re standing there in front of Sam. The next, you’re behind him again, sweeping out your leg in one fluid motion and knocking him off his feet. He falls forward, catching himself with his outstretched palms, but you’re already appearing behind him again, even closer this time.

Pressing your knee into the small of his back, you force him to lie face down on the mat, effectively pinning his arms behind him.

“Alright, alright,” he says, his words garbled by the obstruction of the rubber material. “She got me, y’all.”

Hearing this, you roll off of him onto your back and collapse, breathlessly, into the mat. The adrenaline dissipates as quickly as it had appeared. Closing your eyes, you revel in the feeling of the cool material pressing against the heat of your back. Gingerly, you ghost your fingers over the spot on your abdomen that’s now extremely tender to the touch.

“Hey, you good?” Sam says, and you open your eyes to see he’s extended his hand to you. The relief is evident on his face as you nod your head.

You know everyone else is watching as you take his hand, forcing yourself up. With the group noticing your wincing as your midsection twists in the effort, Natasha comes to squeeze you on the shoulder.

“Good work today.”

“Little, maybe,” Wanda smiles, her accent revealing something of respect for you. “But yes, you are fierce.”

“Alright,” Steve says with some authority. “Natasha’s right—you did well today, kid. Now head upstairs and take the rest of the day off. You’ll need to be well-rested for tomorrow.”

“But I’m fine—,” you begin to protest, but the stern look on his face tells you the argument wouldn’t be worth it. No sense in arguing with Steve when he’s wearing his Captain persona.

Secretly, though, you and your crazy tender abdomen were thankful to not have to go another round with Wilson.

“See you guys at dinner.”

“Catch you later.” Sam’s face softens, just a bit.

Wanda and Vision step up to face each other on the mat as you begin to picture your bedroom in your mind, imaging yourself standing at the foot of your bed. The image in your mind softens, being pushed away and replaced now by the sight of your bed in front of you.

 _I guess I could go for a nap,_ you think, just as a well-timed yawn creeps up on you.

* * *

You’re holding up the hem of your shirt, eyeing the now deeply-purpled bruise on your stomach, when there’s a rapping on your door.

“Come in,” you answer as it creaks open and Steve Rogers steps into your bedroom.

You lock eyes with Steve for a moment in the mirror before he briefly glances down at your bare midriff. Quickly, you pull your shirt down, covering your naked skin. Steve flushes, embarrassed.

You aren’t sure if the heat rises to his face because of your exposed skin or because he saw the long healed-over scars across your belly, but nevertheless, it made you flush a bit as well.

“Sorry, I—,” he stammers, “I wouldn’t have come in if I had known you were—,”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” you promise him, hoping to mitigate both of your embarrassments. “I rolled over in my sleep and must have landed on my stomach wrong. I thought I’d just check it out, make sure it didn’t look too bad.”

“We could call in the doctor, have her take a look at it, if you want,” he offers.

“No, please,” you say a little too quickly, a little too desperately. You realize, as it comes out, it sounds too much like you’re begging. Steve nods, accepting your flatout refusal, but not without a quizzical look.

“Alright,” he puts his hands up, signaling the subject’s been as good as dropped. “No doctor.”

“I’m just really not a fan of them.”

“Like I said,” Steve smiles reassuringly, stepping further into the room. “No doctors.”

You let out a small noise of relief as he crosses the room and stops in front of your bed, looking at you for permission to take a seat. “Mind if I—?”

“Go ahead.” You plop down beside him.

“You know,” he begins. “Sam feels terrible about it. He’s been pretty quiet all day, mostly keeping to himself.”

You can’t help but laugh a bit at the concept of a silent Sam Wilson. Steve raises an eyebrow at the sound.

“Must be feeling pretty sorry,” you laugh brightly again. “He’s never shut up for all these months I’ve known him.”

“Yeah, well, he cares about you. It wasn’t easy for him, or for any of us, to see you take that blow today.” Steve’s expression is serious, his mouth set in that straight line again, and you know that what he’s saying is true. You had honestly felt it yourself—that feeling of being cared for—this morning.

“Steve, I can take a little pain,” you try to relieve any lingering worry, letting a small laugh out. “I’m an Avenger, remember? I’ve seen Nat take way worse hits than that—,”

“Nat was trained, _raised_ even, to take hits like that,” Steve raises his voice slightly, and there’s an edge to it as if he’s beginning to lose his patience with you. “You’re not an assassin. You’re not a soldier like me or Sam. Don’t get me wrong, you’re good in a fist fight—great, even.”

You huffed at that.

“I mean it,” he says, placing his large hand on your knee, nearly engulfing it. “You’re a good shot, and you could probably knock most grown men out on their asses. If you weren’t excelling in your trainings, you wouldn’t have made it this far.”

He continues, “You _are_ an Avenger, but you’re also the same person that you’ve always been. Brains, kindness, determination, heart—that’s you, Y/N. When I was first selected for the supersoldier program, they told me that when you become enhanced like we are, the process only amplifies those parts of yourself. I gotta say, I believe they were right.”

He moves his hand forward and gently taps his index finger against your temple and then, again, above your heart.

“That big brain and heart of yours,” he says seriously, “Those are what make you strong. You don’t have to be the toughest one out on that mat when you can teleport or write papers thicker than the Old Testament.”

“Okay, okay,” you mimic his hands up, surrendering gesture from earlier. “You’ve made your case.”

“Good.” He sounds satisfied enough and changes the subject: “You hungry?”

“Depends,” you narrow your eyes at him playfully. “Who’s cooking?”

Steve shakes his head and laughs out, “Don’t worry—it’s not me.”

“Then yes, I _am_ hungry after all.”

He stands, offering you his hand to help you off the bed. You wince with the movement of rising as you place your hand in his.

“Walk with me to the kitchen?” He asks, but you’ve just thought of a more exciting idea.

“How about I race you there?”

You see him playfully cutting his eyes at you, a bemused smile tugging on the corners of his lips, as you begin to imagine yourself standing in front of the dining table. Just as quickly as you’ve pictured its wooden surface, you’ve arrived.

“Looks like your nap was refreshing,” Natasha says from the seat beside you, not even humoring a jump at your sudden appearance in the room.

“It was,” you admit, reaching up to comb your fingers through your hair before plopping down next to her. “It smells good in here.” The scent of garlic and onions being roasted fills the air.

“It’s Sam’s ‘I’m-Sorry’ spaghetti and meatballs,” Natasha explains, nodding over to where the man stood over the sleek, modern stovetop.

“With garlic bread?” You ask excitedly.

“There’s garlic bread,” Sam pipes up over his shoulder, turning to look at you for the first time since you popped into the room.

You give him a genuine smile and promise, “Then all’s been forgiven.”

“Yeah,” Sam holds your gaze for a moment before huffing and turning back to his saucepan. “We know how you like to eat.”

Nat exchanges a look with you, nudging you with her foot under the table.

Without having to think about teleporting yourself there, you’re now standing next to him at the stove. He doesn’t flinch.

“Sam,” you get his attention, your voice softening. “I’m okay, and I’m not mad at you.”

“Well, I’m mad at myself.” He continues to stir the sauce bubbling in the pan below him.

“Don’t be,” you place your hand on his arm gently. “We were sparring, Sam. You were supposed to hit me. That’s kind of the point.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have hit you so hard,” he sets the wooden spoon aside for a moment. “Played it off as well as you could, but I saw your face.”

“Well, look at my face now,” you urge him, rubbing your thumb along the spot on his bicep. “Does it look like I’m in pain?”

“No,” he finally admits, beginning to come around with that trademark Sam Wilson smirk. “Just looks like your regular ol’ stupid face.”

“See? Nothing to worry about,” you release your hand on his arm, satisfied to hear the Sam Wilson you knew returning. “You just focus on that garlic bread.”

“Food’s actually about ready,” he peeks at the bread in the oven. “Wanna crack open one of those bottles?”

He nods over to the collection of bottles of red wine on the counter.

“What? No jokes about needing to see my ID?” You tease while starting to uncork it.

Just as you begin pouring some of the Merlot into a glass, Steve comes walking up the steps.

“Sure you’re old enough to be drinking that?”

“Promise, Captain,” you roll your eyes, laughing.

“Pour me a glass?” Natasha asks from her place at the table.

“Yeah, I’ll take one, too,” Sam calls out, sliding on oven mitts.

Pulling out two more glasses from the cupboard, you sarcastically ask, “Anybody else while I’m at it?”

“Count me in,” Wanda says, joining the group with Vision following not far behind.

“Vision?” You ask smiling, already knowing the answer.

“I’m afraid it would not do myself or Captain Rogers any good to partake in the evening’s festivities.”

“Though we might get a kick out of watching all of you work your way through those bottles,” Steve laughs.

You place the filled glasses on the table in front of Wanda and Nat, saying, “It’s been a few years, but back when I was in college, I could drink most of my guy friends under the table.”

“Oh, is that so?” Sam asks playfully, joining the group to set the food in the middle of the table. “I’d have liked to see that.”

“You know,” Nat reaches for the garlic bread to add to her plate. “I can picture it.”

“So American colleges really are like the movies,” Wanda notes, taking a sip from her glass.

“Yeah,” you say in between bites of bread. “Except the movies really undersell the whole ‘crippling student debt’ and ‘never-ending pile of homework’ thing… but I guess the parties were pretty fun.”

“I think I would have liked to go to a college party,” she says, earning somewhat surprised looks from Steve and Vision.

Natasha shrugs, “We could probably still sneak you into one if you really wanted, but you’re not missing out on much.”

“Nat’s right,” you agree over your wine glass. “Unless you’re just really eager to have a bunch of sweaty, musty, frat guys dancing all up on you, you’re really not missing anything.”

“Wanda,” Vision addresses her, the only one at the table without a plate of food in front of him. “That environment does not at all sound appropriate.”

You exchange a look with Natasha—the two of you had talked about your shared suspicions that there may be more than friendship blooming between Wanda and Vision before.

“‘Frat guys’?” Steve questions, cocking his eyebrow.

“A scary group of men who have been terrorizing young women across college campuses for centuries,” you explain sarcastically, shoving another piece of bread into your mouth.

“Is there nothing that can be done to stop them?” Vision asks sincerely, the concern furrowing the area on his forehead where his eyebrows would be, if he had them.

Natasha laughs, “They might give you the Nobel Peace Prize if you figured out how to solve that one, Vision.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam interrupts, holding a hand up and chuckling. “I just really can’t picture you at a frat party.”

You mock offense as Natasha takes a sip from her glass before taking another playful shot at you, “You did ask to feel Steve’s biceps after just that one cocktail at Tony’s birthday party.”

You cover your face with your hands in embarrassment as Wanda and Sam burst out laughing. When you uncover your eyes, you see Vision wearing a bemused expressions.

“It was a strong cocktail!” You argue, laughing past your shame. “Are you guys ever going to let me live that down?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Steve says matter-of-factly from across the table, an easy smile finding his lips.

“Just come on and face it,” Sam teases. “You’re a lightweight now, baby.”

You shrug in acceptance, groaning, “Oh, god. I know. What’s happened to me?”

“You started teleporting,” Wanda offers lightly before taking a bite of the meatball she had been rolling around her plate.

“A fair trade, it would seem,” Vision remarks.

“Yeah, it would,” you admit. “I guess if I hadn’t started teleporting, I wouldn’t have met all of you squares.”

“Hey—don’t start getting sappy on us now,” Natasha warns with a smile.

“ _Start?_ ” Sam huffs jokingly.

“This one’s always been sappy,” Steve agrees, nodding in your direction with a smirk.

Wanda responds to you rolling your eyes by teasingly acknowledging, “You _are_ always rewatching ‘Pride and Prejudice’ in your room.”

“If I have to hear Kiera Knighly say, ‘ _Oh, Mr. Darcy_!’ through those walls one more time, I might lose my damn mind,” Sam provides a perfect impression of the actress’ voice. The table shakes with laughter—he actually makes a pretty good Elizabeth Bennet. 

“Wow, is it ‘Verbally Abuse Y/N Day’ today or something?” You joke with them, noting the theme of the entertainment for tonight seems to be you.

“I believe it has all been in good fun,” Vision reassures you. “Our laughter is born from a place of respect.”

“And some might even say a place of affection,” Natasha smiles softly, throwing a wink in your direction.

“Aw,” you laugh again, now to cover up the fact that you are, after all their teasing, beginning to feel sappy. “You guys really _do_ like me.”

“Eh,” Sam shrugs, playfully feigning indifference. “You’re alright.”

“This place certainly won’t be the same without you around,” Steve says, a glint forming in the blue of his eyes. “We’re all going to miss you, Y/N.”

“Well, hopefully, you won’t have to miss me for long.”

Wanda raises her glass, still full with the deep red wine, as she says, “Here’s to hopefully.”

“To hopefully,” the rest of the table joins in, clinking their glasses together. 

_Heres to hopefully, Sergeant Barnes_ , you think, taking in the view of the people around you. _I’ll have a family waiting for me at home._


	3. A Coffee Shop in Bucharest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is lengthy, but I felt it was necessary to set up a lot of things important to the story’s future. We’ll finally meet Bucky Barnes in this chapter… and so the action begins :)

Early morning light filters in through the windows of the train. The hushed conversations of passengers exchanging greetings and discussing the news struggle to fill the train car over the bustle of the train against the track. Leaning back into your seat, you pull the brim of your hat down as you take in the view of the expansive, green European countryside. It’s unlikely you would be noticed here, half a world away from home, but you still couldn’t take any chances.

The speed of the train blurs the never-ending greenery outside your passenger window. All of Europe looks like a Van Gogh painting from the window of a train—the landscape a swirl of vivid greens and yellows, irises barely taking a shape or form before the train passes by in its rush. It’s peaceful and beautiful and serene, and yet you ache for home.

Four countries in fifteen weeks—Belarus, Poland, Ukraine, and Hungary—and there was no sign of Bucky Barnes. The trails turned cold just as quickly as you’d found them. You had gotten close, in Budapest, but you had missed him by just hours.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, rousing you from your thoughts. Steve’s calling. It takes you a moment to calculate what time it must be back home, but when you do, you can’t help the knot that forms in your stomach.

“Steve?” You answer, the worry evident in your voice. “Is everything all right?”

“Just wanted to check in,” his voice strains against something—likely a lack of sleep. “Have you found anything since we talked last?”

You pause, fumbling with the zipper of your jacket. You always hated disappointing him, but you knew that telling him about how close you’d been back in Hungary would be especially difficult. You’d been avoiding updating him for that very reason.

“I got really close, Steve,” you tell him solemnly. “I was _so_ close—but by the time I got to the station, he was already gone.”

He’s silent for a moment on the other end of the line.

“Where are you headed now?”

“Bucharest.” You swivel your head around to sweep the train car, your eyes passing over the faces of the other passengers to assure none are eavesdropping. “I’ve been translating some of those older records from Hydra. He was… dispatched… there in the early 80s, during the Cold War.”

The line goes quiet again, and for a moment, you’re afraid you’ve lost the connection.

Suddenly he asks, “And if he’s not in Bucharest?”

“He’s there. He’s in Bucharest—I know it.”

He lets out a sigh and says, “I hope you’re right.”

You can hear just how tired he must be. It’s easy for you to picture how he must look right now, sitting in his office back at the compound, shoulders hunched over the files on his desk, heavy with the weight of much needed sleep.

“You sound exhausted, Steve.”

“Yeah, well, we picked up some chatter on Rumlow a few hours ago,” he explains. “Nat and I have been strategizing all night. We leave for Lagos first thing in the morning, as soon as we’ve briefed the team.”

“Do you guys need me?”

“Need you? No, we won’t need you tomorrow,” he says, and you begin to feel a twinge of hurt until he adds, “But miss you? That’s another story.”

You fix your eyes on the blur of green outside your passenger window again, willing the tears that threaten to spill from your lashes to not stay put.

“I thought I knew what it meant to be homesick when I was in college, or when I was at the compound before, missing my mom and brother,” you admit, your voice lowering to keep your emotions in check. “But I wasn’t prepared to miss everyone so much.”

“I know,” he says simply, and you know he understands just what you mean.

There’s a long exchange of silence between the two of you, and then, “Just watch your back out there, Y/N… and if you do find him—Buck, I mean—,”

“You’ll be the first to know,” you promise.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” you brush it off. “Stay safe tomorrow.”

“Always,” he assures you.

“Go get some rest, Steve,” you tell him. “I’ll call if I find anything.”

He sighs. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.”

The line disconnects, and your mind begins to drift away from thoughts of the missions and the assignments, and away from your new life. The endless green and yellow Van Gogh swirls continue to stretch beyond the tracks. You allow yourself to think of your mom and brother for the first time in weeks.

You were seven when your dad left, and Robbie had just turned five. Your mom did everything she could to make sure the two of you never went without, but those early years were especially hard. It took her nearly a year to save up for your first vacation as a family of three. It wasn’t Disney World, but that didn’t matter—Washington, D.C. was an even more exciting destination to little you.

The Smithsonian had been everything you’d hoped it would be. Your mom followed behind as you rushed from exhibit to exhibit, dragging Robbie by the hand the whole time. You remember his little hand in your own, the pink tinting his chubby cheeks, and his big, round eyes staring up in awe at the displays.

It had been there, actually, that you had first really learned the story of captain America, Bucky Barnes, and the Howling Commandos. Robbie had stood back-to-back with the mannequin sporting Cap’s vintage uniform, the mannequin easily towering over him by a couple of feet or more, while you read the inscriptions on the wall.

Your mom had to pull the two of you away, bribing you both to head back to the car with the promise that D.C. had many more museums to offer. The three of you explored more museums than you could probably recall during those three days in D.C., but looking out the window of the train car now, a distinctive memory replays in your mind.

The National Gallery of Art was one of the last stops of the trip—the museum your mom was most excited to visit. You remember watching her as she examined each work of art, as if she was searching for something in it. She could look at a painting for half an hour and it would still be as if she was viewing it for the very first time. Her tiny frame could have been swallowed up, standing there in front of those large canvases, but instead she became part of the artwork, a living exhibit. She looked curious, intellectual, even elegant, staring up into the brushstrokes. You longed to be just like her.

It wasn’t until you spotted it, the canvas spotlighted on a wall across the room, that you thought you understood what your mother had been searching for in the artworks. The scene before you could have been plucked from your dreams—it was familiar yet unearthly all at once. The colors themselves were a paradox, both vivid and muted in the same stroke. Shades of greens, yellows, and blues mixed together to form wheat grass, standing tall against a seemingly endless, cloud-filled sky.

As Robbie found your hand, tugging you away from your mesmerized state, you remember thinking that your mom hadn’t been looking for answers in the brushwork. Instead, she had been looking in every image for an escape, just a brief reprieve from the reality around her. You had found it yourself, lived in it for just a moment, in Van Gogh’s _Green Wheat Fields_.

Now, all these years later, it is yet another whirlwind of color that offers you some peace. The gentle motion of the train bustling down the tracks, towards Bucharest, lulls you to sleep.

* * *

The landlady says her goodbyes, closing the door behind her, as you place your few belongings on the bed. The flat is tiny but cozy, with dated furnishings that clash against the view from the window, a modern bustling city below you.

You make a mental note to visit the little coffee shop situated in the same building, just below your flat, in a bit. Ms. Mihaela, the landlady, mentioned that the owner was looking for a new barista. Believing you’re in Bucharest to study at the university, she told you to apply in hopes that you’d meet local people your age.

Of course, she doesn’t know you’re only here in search of a man a long way from home, but the shop does offer an excellent ground view of the busy city street. There’s even a farmers’ market held every Saturday in the plaza across the way, she informed you.

Unzipping your suitcase, you begin unpacking, sparsely filling the dresser drawers with your clothes. From the hidden compartment of your luggage, you pull out the suit Tony had built for you. It had taken nearly nine months—he was constantly tweaking or changing or adding some feature—before he was satisfied enough with it to let you have it. He still insists it’s only a prototype, until you can return home and he can make some other ‘much needed’ adjustments, but it seemed perfect to you.

In truth, you hadn’t been able to put it to use in the field since receiving it. There hadn’t been a need for you to suit up while searching for Bucky, but you had still packed it for the trip, just in case. As you hang it in your closet, you take a moment to admire it.

The material was breathable, stretchy, and lightweight while still retaining its strength. Tony had designed it to be more resistant to cuts and tears, and parts that covered your chest and abdomen were Kevlar-padded. The plates situated at your wrists, shoulders, and shins were made of some sort of metal, dark blue in color, that absorbed impact. The suit itself was mostly a soft gray color with accents of light blue. If you were being honest, it was perfectly designed for you. Tony had outdone himself, and you couldn’t imagine how he even planned to upgrade it.

Closing the closet doors shut, you resign yourself to having to wait to use it until you’re officially out in the field again—you couldn’t wait.

Walking back to your suitcase, you begin to remove your small collection of toiletries, gathering them up to take to the flat’s bathroom. The bathroom is quite nice, and not nearly as dated as the rest of the apartment. The subway tile on the floor looks like it had been laid recently, and a fresh coat of bright, white paint settles onto the walls. A small, mirrored medicine cabinet resides above the sink, and you take a moment to look at your reflection.

For someone who had just spent the last 16 hours on a train—you couldn’t risk blowing your cover by teleporting around Eastern Europe—you don’t look too bad. You remove the fake glasses frames from your face, rubbing your fingers over the indent they leave behind on the bridge of your nose. Steve had insisted you wear them, and you had thought it was a silly ‘disguise’ at first, but they really did help to obscure any recognition.

The faucet runs as you begin to wash your face, wiping the grime of a long travel from your face. Patting your face dry against a clean towel, you take a moment to massage in a dime-size amount of moisturize before returning the black, thick-framed glasses to sit atop your nose. 

Running a brush through your hair, you walk back into the bedroom, looking through the dresser for something to wear when visiting with the coffee shop owner and replaying your cover story in your head again and again.

The fake passport and drivers license Natasha had given you are scattered on top of the dresser. According to the expertly-doctored paperwork, you are Sarah Freidman, a 24-year-old American student from Iowa studying abroad for the semester at the University of Bucharest. Nat had not only set you up with a student visa, but she also actually enrolled you in three courses at the university; Sarah was meant to begin studying philosophy, politics, and economics in the university’s Masters of Philosophy program in just a couple of weeks.

Sliding a new pair of jeans up your waist and shrugging into a fresh top, you grab your bag and keys to head downstairs, locking up the apartment as you close the door behind you. Heading down the stairwell to the lower floor, the comforting smell of coffee grounds wafts up to your nose, and you’re immediately reminded of mornings in the kitchen back at the compound.

Stepping into the coffee shop, you look around, noting it’s empty. Glancing at the sign on the door, you realize why—they’ve closed up for the evening. Still, you approach the counter and find a young man, not much older than you, working behind it.

“Excuse me,” you begin in your imperfect Romanian. “I am looking for Mr. Dorin—Ms. Mihaela said I would find him here?”

He looks up at you from where he had been cleaning out a coffee pot, arching an eyebrow and offering a lopsided smile. “Of course, Mama would send you,” he speaks in Romanian, shaking his head in good nature.

“Sorry?” You ask, wondering if you understood him correctly.

“Ms. Mihaela is my mother,” he explains, reaching out his hand in your direction. “I am Dorin.”

“Oh,” you simply say, reaching out to shake his extended hand. A blush creeps up into your cheeks for just a moment—you had imagined him as an older man.

“You are the American, yes?” He asks, a bemused expression on his face.

You nod. “Yes, I am staying upstairs,” you gesture to the ceiling.

“Mama offered you a job?” He wonders directly. You can’t tell if he’s irritated or amused, or perhaps a little of both.

“Um, no,” you shift on your feet. “She said you were looking for help.”

He nods matter-of-factly. “And do you need a job?”

“Yes,” you respond, meeting his eyes when he looks up at you again from his task.

“Okay, American girl,” he says, the tone of his voice sounding lighter. “You’re hired.”

You can’t even try to hide the look of surprise on your face. This was the fastest job interview you’d ever experienced.

Dorin chuckled, “Mama says you are a very bright girl—you are studying at the university?” He seems to already know the answer but still frames it as a question.

“Yes,” you answer. “I am finishing up my Master’s degree there.”

“Mhm,” he hums in acknowledgement, a glint in his eye. “Well, if you can study, you can make a pot of coffee.”

You offer a smile, nodding your head in agreement.

“Be here tomorrow at seven and I will show you, American girl,” he says, coming around from behind the counter now to walk you to the door.

As you are both heading out the door, leading up to the stairwell, you turn to him. “My name is Sarah,” you correct him, the lie rolling off your tongue without impediment.

“Miss Sarah,” he smiles, locking the door to the shop before turning to you again. His brown eyes are warm and friendly as he says, “Welcome to Bucharest.”

“Thank you, Dorin. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” you promise, waving as you begin to head up the stairwell.

“See you,” he calls out jovially, humming to himself as he walks to the curb and begins to unlock his car.

Once upstairs and inside the flat once more, you kick off your shoes and plop down on the worn sofa in the middle of the living space. There is a small, flat screen television hanging on the wall across from you, a modern contrast to the dated sofa and coffee table, and you turn it on.

You don’t flip more than one channel before the breaking news being reported has you scrambling for your phone.

The line seems to ring forever until you finally hear his voice on the other end of the call. “Steve? I just saw the news—oh my god.”

“Everyone’s okay—physically,” he tries to assure you, picking up on the panic in your voice. “Just shaken up.”

“Wanda, how is she? They’re playing the footage on the news here, Steve,” you say, an edge in your voice. The screams coming from the TV as the grainy video shows Wanda collapsing to the ground fills you with dread.

Steve sighs on the other end. “She’s quiet—withdrawn. I’m worried, honestly, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t beating myself about it.”

“Steve,” you protest. “Don’t do that.”

“Rumlow said his name—he said Bucky knew me, had called out for me once—and I lost focus. I didn’t see the bomb until it was too late,” he explains, dripping guilt from every word. You feel your chest tighten at the pain in his voice. “People died. Wanda was just saving my skin.”

“It was a dangerous mission, Steve. Hundreds of people would have died if you hadn’t gone to Lagos to stop him,” you reason with him.

“Doesn’t make it any easier.” You had never hurt anyone—let alone killed someone—in the field, and yet the fear of someone innocent being caught in the crossfire still haunted you on the eve of every mission you’d ever gone on with the team. The guilt that Steve and Wanda were grappling with right now had to be enormous.

“Go talk to her,” you urge him. “She needs you right now.”

He lets out another sigh. “I’ll talk to Wanda in the morning before Tony gets here. She’s been resting since we got back to the compound.”

“Good,” you say, sitting in silence for a moment before asking, “Do you want me to come home?”

“No, no,” he brushes off the idea. “Just stay put.”

“I know you and Tony don’t always see eye-to-eye, but he has a soft spot for me… Maybe I _should_ come home, you know, be there when he gets back?”

He laughs, the sound of it half-hearted and small. “I can handle Tony on my own.” He’s confident, authoritative even, when he says it. 

“I know you can,” you smile at his bravado despite the knots that have taken up residence in your stomach. “I’m just saying you don’t have to.”

“I appreciate that,” he tells you with sincerity. “But I’m handling it.”

“Alright,” you concede. “Just call me tomorrow, let me know how it goes?”

He assures you that he will, not missing the chance to tell you to get some rest before hanging up the phone.

Grabbing the remote, you turn off the TV and run your hand over your face, rubbing at your tired eyes. A yawn rips through you, another well-timed reminder that you needed sleep. You imagine yourself, curled up cozily on the little full bed in the apartment, and the image in your mind becomes reality before your eyes as you’re teleported there.

Within seconds of pulling the quilted blanket up around your neck, you’re already fast asleep. Dreams of a closed door, illuminated against the darkness by a soft blue glow escaping from its cracks, fill your mind. 

_Open the door, child_ , a woman’s voice gently commands. You watch your hand extend forward before you, reaching out for the knob, but it passes right through it without making contact, as if it were the hand of a ghost. 

_I can’t!_ you call out to her in frustration, looking frantically for the woman who speaks to you. 

_But you will,_ she says again. 

You cannot see her. You do not know her, and yet her voice is so familiar. Yes. You’ve heard her voice before—you are certain of it.

 _Who are you?_ you wonder aloud, but there is no answer. 

It is only you, the endless darkness of space, and a door you cannot yet open.

* * *

The phone buzzes in your pocket again as you hand the customer a cup filled to the brim with coffee and milk.

“Thank you,” you smile politely, speaking in Romanian. You’re improving every day. “Come again.”

Dorin is ringing up a customer at the register beside you as you place a hand on his shoulder, getting his attention. “Mind if I go on my break now?”

He finishes up the transaction with the customer before gesturing towards the small break room behind the counter with his head, “Go ahead.”

You wait to make sure the break room door has swung fully closed behind you before pulling out your phone and checking your missed calls and messages, feeling heat rise to your face in frustration as you read the barrage of messages coming from Tony and Natasha, no doubt trying to convince you to fly to Vienna today for the signing of the Accords.

Just as you begin to type a response to Tony, your phone buzzes again and a photo of Nat is displayed across the screen.

“Nat, I’m working,” you hiss. “I’ve told you and Tony a million times already that I’m not signing those Accords.”

“The signing is happening in less than half an hour,” she informs you, her tone sweet with the sound of persuasion. “Even if you can’t be here, a statement from you would be enough to—,”

“A statement?” You scoff. “I’ve already given Tony my statement. What, does he need another?”

The heat returns to your cheeks in anger. The Accords were a bad idea—allowing a governmental organization to control the Avengers’ every move was a terrifying proposition. What would happen when the panel decided that what the world needed was for the Avengers to topple yet another regime in the Middle East? Or if a danger presented itself and you couldn’t act because the panel had failed to come to an agreement in voting? What if, by the time the issue of addressing a world-ending level event came to a vote, it was too late? Bureaucracy and government had always been synonymous with inefficiency and sluggishness, and this panel would not be any different.

You would not be part of anyone’s political toolkit. The whole thing was a weaponization of the Avengers’ by global superpowers, disguised as some bullshit peacekeeping initiative, and you had voiced all of your concerns to Tony last week. There was no point in arguing with him about it any longer. He had been clear—sign now or you will be forced to sign later. You had been clearer—you would never willingly sign those Accords.

“Y/N—,” Nat begins, but Dorin comes bustling in the door, saving you.

“Big crowd—I need you upfront.” His face is pink with the flush of hard work. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dorin,” you reply in Romanian, thankful for him giving you a reason to end the call. “I’m coming.”

“Nat, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” You disconnect the call before she can say anything else.

As you walk back up to the bar to join Dorin, you see he hadn’t been exaggerating. There’s a sizable crowd of people streaming in, likely from the farmer’s market happening across the street. You take up your station at the coffee machine, fulfilling the orders as Dorin handles the register.

You’ve worked up a sweat by the time the last customer has been served, and your workstation is a sticky mess from keeping up with the rush. Dorin is counting out the register as you begin wiping down the counter, listening to the excited chatter coming from a group of university students seated across the room. They’re all huddled together over their phones, speaking incredibly quickly.

They’re talking so quickly, in fact, that it takes you a moment to register what they’re saying. As you translate the words from Romanian to English in your mind, you instantly freeze, your stomach seemingly lurching to the floor. The rag falls from your hand as you realize what it is they’re saying: there has been a bombing at the United Nations. Your head is spinning as you feel all the blood begin to drain from your face.

Nat was there.

The sound of your heart beating wildly in your chest drowns out all other noise, and you don’t hear the bell jingle as the front door swings open. You miss Dorin greeting the customer and taking their order, and you are just barely aware of him placing a copy of the receipt in front of you.

An americano.

Dorin chats with the customer as you numbly go through the motions of making their drink. “The American girl will make your americano, sir,” he chuckles. “She’ll be with you in a moment.”

You go through the motions of making the drink without thinking, your mind still racing with the news of the Vienna bombing. You settle the steaming hot cup on a saucer, willing your hands to stop shaking just long enough to hand off the order without spilling it.

“One americano—,” you begin to say numbly as you walk towards the counter. Your voice catches in your throat, unable to continue when the customer looks up at you, his hat no longer hiding his features.

Gray-blue eyes meet yours, and it takes everything in you not to gasp. His dark brown hair is long, situated under a red ball cap, but his features are unchanged. He looks older maybe, tired, but still just as handsome as he had been in that old enlistment photo. Yes, you were sure of it. It was Bucky Barnes standing there, just inches from you.

He’s searching your face, measuring your expression, for any tell that you might recognize him. “American, huh?” He says in English.

“Uh, yeah,” you force yourself to respond, plastering a polite smile across your lips. “Just moved here for school about a week ago.”

He nods at this a bit absent-mindedly, and you can tell he’s making an exit plan in his head in case you do recognize him—an American would be more familiar with the Winter Soldier, after all.

He glances down at your name tag and pauses. “Sarah.” He says it like the name means something to him. “My best friend growing up, his mom’s name was Sarah.”

His eyes are steely gray, and for just a moment, you see something resembling hurt displayed in their irises. As if your heart couldn’t beat any faster—any louder—it seems to pick up speed as you realize that the best friend he’s remembering is Steve.

He pulls a handful of Leus from his jacket pocket, and you notice he is careful to use only his right hand. Stuffing the bills into the tip jar, he grabs the saucer from you and gives a small, closed-lip smile in a silent ‘thank you’ before walking away.

Returning to your workstation, you pretend to wipe down the coffee maker while stealing covert glances over at where Bucky now sits at a table alone. He grips the coffee cup in one hand, holding open a book between distinctly gray, metal fingers. There was no doubting that it was him now.

You watch for several more minutes as he finishes up his coffee, carefully placing the empty mug back on the saucer before returning it wordlessly to the counter in front of you. He offers you a final nod before lowering his hat and heading out the door, into the crowd of the bustling street, towards the farmer’s market.

“Dorin,” you call over to him, his head still hanging over the receipts, a calculator in hand. “Can I go back on break?”

He nods, dismissing you, and you’re practically running back to the break room, ripping your phone from your pocket as you move.

Just as you’re typing in Steve’s name, your phone buzzes, showing his photo.

“Steve—,” you begin frantically.

He cuts you off. “Y/N, the UN’s been bombed—,”

“I know.” Your mind is whirling with the daze of events of the last fifteen minutes. “Is Nat—?”

“She’s fine,” he assures you, dismissing you quickly. “Y/N, they’ve got intelligence on Bucky, they’re saying he’s in Romania—,”

It’s your turn to cut him off now. “They’re right—he’s in Bucharest,” you say, stepping out from the break room, the phone still pressed to your ear. 

You get Dorin’s attention, pointing to the phone and then gesturing outside, letting him know you’re going to step out for a bit. He dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“What? How do you know—?” Steve doesn’t make an attempt to hide the surprise in his voice as you scan the crowd across the street for that familiar face, heart pounding until you’ve finally spotted him again, standing alone at the bus station.

“Because I’m staring right at him.”


	4. Fight to Berlin

Several hours ago, while waiting for Sam and Steve to arrive, you had watched as Bucky had slipped inside the tiny flat. He had left the apartment building a little more than an hour ago, no luggage in hand.

“Going in now,” Steve communicates over the earpiece. Narrowing your eyes, you scan the adjacent side of the building until your eyes land on his figure, slipping in through a window.

Something else captures your attention—movement on the ground.

Sam catches it before you do. “Heads up, Cap,” he warns over the comms. “German Special Forces, approaching from the south.”

Steve responds in acknowledgment. “Understood.”

Peering over the ledge and looking down onto the street, you now see a large cohort of heavily-armed men swarming the ground floor of the apartment building as another group runs up the fire escape, heading directly towards Sam’s position on the flat’s rooftop. _Fuck._

Sam sees them, too.

“They’ve set the perimeter,” he warns again. You see him ready his wings. “They’re entering the building.”

The men on the fire escape are now just seconds away from making the rooftop.

Just as the first man steps onto Sam’s level, he pushes off, soaring into the air. “They’re on the roof. I’m compromised.”

“I’ve still got eyes, boys,” you talk into the earpiece. “Steve, you need to get out of there.”

“Five seconds!” Sam counts down from the air as the men on the rooftop ready a grenade. “Three seconds!”

“Steve!” You yell into the comms. “They’re about to drop a—,”

The window smashes and Sam’s voice raises in your ear. “Breach! Breach! Breach!”

_Fuck._

The sound of gunfire reverberates across the air, and you shift on your feet, a double-dose of anxiety and adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t see into the flat to know what’s happening—all you can do is stand and wait for some sort of queue.

You see something flying out the window into the air, landing with a thud onto the roof of the adjacent building. Focusing your eyes on it, you make out that it’s a duffle bag. It feels like an eternity of silence, the sound of your heart pounding wildly in your chest, as you wait from your position.

It’s then that you see it, a man leaping from the window and landing with a thud on the rooftop, scooping up the duffle bag in his arms with a start. Bucky.

“I’ve got eyes on Bucky—,” you begin to say into the earpiece, but the sentence gets caught in your throat as a dark figure leaps from seemingly out of nowhere, tackling Bucky to the ground. The figure, dressed in black, moves with incredible grace and perches himself feline-like in front of Bucky. “We’ve got a third-party, boys. I’m jumping in.”

“Y/N,” Steve warns. “Stay—,” but you’re already materializing on the other building’s rooftop.

The dark figure leaps to his feet, displaying a set of metal claws.

Noticing his cat-like ears, you can’t help yourself from saying, “What the—?”

Bucky swivels on his heels at the sound of you at his rear. His eyes widen for a moment in recognition as his takes in the sight of you. “What are you—?”

He’s cut off as you disappear into thin air before him, seeing the cat-like figure squaring up to pounce at him. You drop down onto the figure’s shoulders, wrapping your legs around his throat.

“Sam, Steve,” you shout, pressing down on your earpiece with one hand and gripping onto the feline figure’s face with the other. “There’s a—a cat—pursuing.”

“I know you didn’t just say a _cat_ ,” Sam comes over the earpiece, just as the dark figure grabs you from his shoulders, flinging you to the ground with ease. He’s strong—enhanced.

Groaning from where you’ve been thrown on the concrete, you pull yourself up on your elbows to see Bucky exchanging blows with the figure. Bucky’s strong and fast, but the figure is faster. As Bucky goes in for a swing, the cat catches him square in the chest with one smooth, elegant kick. He flies backwards, slamming into the building’s HVAC system with a thud. He barely has time to recompose himself as the figure pursues him, moving with incredible speed, and sinking his claws into the metal directly beside Bucky’s head.

“Need a little help up here,” you say agitatedly into the earpiece, pulling yourself to your feet. Bucky grabs onto a pipe, using it to shield his face as the claws nearly slash into him.

“Sam, southwest rooftop,” Steve directs.

You hear Sam soaring above you. “Who the hell’s the other guy?”

“About to find out,” he replies, and turning your head, you see him leap onto the rooftop, the sound of an aircraft following just behind.

Gunfire begins to rain overhead, bullets striking the ground just inches from you. Without a thought, you transport yourself away from the fire and at Steve’s side.

“Sam,” he calls over the comms, directing Sam towards the helicopter overhead.

You watch as he swoops easily into the helicopters cabin, calling out to you both. “On it.”

In the gunfire, Bucky manages to break free from the grasp of the figure, leaping from the building and onto another’s ledge. The feline in black takes off after him, sprinting with ease. Without hesitation, Steve follows and you teleport yourself onto the ledge just trailing the figure. Willing your feet to carrying you faster, you speed up, throwing all your weight in front of you as you tackle the figure. He throws you off of him with no effort, but you’ve managed to slow him down as Bucky gains distance, dropping himself down into the busy roadway below you.

Steve runs past you, looking out the corner of his eye to assess if you’re alright, as you regain your footing. One following the other, you watch as the unknown pursuer and Steve both drop down into the road, chasing Bucky. Running to the ledge, you peer down and lock eyes with a government vehicle below. Transporting yourself to its roof, blue lights flashing, you see all three figures running along the roadway, forcing cars to swerve dangerously in avoidance.

_“Stand down!”_

Steve throws himself onto the hood of the car as it violently halts to a stop, and you let out a small gasp as you’re nearly thrown from it. Locking eyes with you and nodding, he throws the driver from the vehicle, punching out the shattered windshield and speeding off towards Bucky. If you weren’t clinging onto the car’s roof for dear life, you might have laughed at the absurdity of Steve Rogers grabbing the man from the car as if this were a game of _Grand Theft Auto_.

The two of you accelerate past the running feline, hot in pursuit of Barnes, and you see him ready himself to leap atop the vehicle.

Just as he’s connecting with the roof of Steve’s stolen car, you’re transporting yourself in rapid succession from car to car ahead of you, trying to gain on Bucky. Looking over your shoulder, you see Steve swerving the black government vehicle violently, trying to shake the cat-person on its roof.

“Sam, I can’t shake this guy,” you hear in your ear.

Turning your attention back ahead, you see Bucky leaping from car to car, swerving in and out of the traffic, towards an opening in the tunnel ahead.

“Right behind you!” Sam shouts back.

“I’m gaining on Bucky,” you yell into the comms. “But there’s no way I’ll be able to pin him down if I catch up to him.”

Steve yells back. “Do not engage!”

The sound of sirens blares behind you, echoing throughout the tunnel. Your heart beats feverishly in rhythm. Just ahead, a swarm of government vehicles head Bucky off, and he leaps to his left, avoiding them. Looking over your shoulder, you see Steve begin to swerve to avoid them, the car careening towards a series of cones ahead. Within seconds, you transport yourself into the passenger seat next to him.

Gripping onto the seat to steady yourself, a series of curses escapes through your gritted teeth as the car slams into the cones, the force of it throwing you forward and then back into the seat again. Steve doesn’t react, his eyes locked on Bucky racing ahead.

The two of you watch as a motorbike approaches him and, with sickening force, he knocks the driver off, leaping onto it himself and pulling further ahead. He turns the corner with ease, pulling into yet another tunnel as Steve jerks the steering wheel to the right, following behind. The movement throws you into the passenger side door, and glancing into the rearview mirror, you see the masked individual readying himself to leap forward from the back of the vehicle.

In horror, your eyes follow as the figure flies through the air towards the motorbike, pulling back his claws to slash into Bucky. In a smooth movement, Bucky steers the bike ahead with one arm, reaching up and catching the dark figure by the throat with his metal hand.

It happens so quickly, the figure lighting his legs to run along the tunnel wall, lifting himself up and gracefully flipping the motorbike onto its side. Bucky kicks towards his sternum, sending him backwards. Sam comes soaring ahead from your rear, and just as he’s gaining on Bucky, the black cat jumps forward, catching his legs in his claws like prey.

They struggle in the air, with you and Steve still racing behind in the car, as Bucky looks over his shoulder for a brief moment. He pulls something from his pocket, and you hardly have time to react as he flings it above him, attaching it to the overpass ahead. The explosion rocks the ground beneath you, sending chunks of concrete exploding around you.

“Steve!” You shout as the infrastructure ahead begins to crumble, threatening to block you in. In a microsecond, you’ve transported yourself ahead of it, clearing the rubble as it rains down.

Steve breaks free from the car, barreling out from the drivers side door, and bursting ahead where the dark-suited figure grapples with Bucky on the ground. Before they can continue their fight, the sirens grow closer, a fleet of black vehicles closing in and surrounding you on all sides. The four of you are on your feet, watching as they approach.

The ground shakes slightly before you as Rhodey touches down with a loud thud, raising his hands to aim at the four of you.

“Stand down _now_ ,” he commands. Steve reaches his arm out, stilling Bucky.

Your chest begins to rise and fall in panic, the gravity of the situation hitting you in full force, as agents begin to approach you.

“Congratulations, Cap,” Rhodey says, disgust oozing from his voice. “You’re a criminal.”

Hearing this and spotting the cuffs in the agents’ hands nearly sends you reeling, and as your eyes scan the perimeter in fear, you lock eyes with Steve. He shakes his head at you, a silent warning. He’s telling you to stay put.

There’s no teleporting out of this.

They approach Bucky first, knocking him down to his knees and gathering his hands behind his back. His face is steady, unreadable, without emotion. For just a brief moment, as he’s going down, his eyes meet yours. His eyes are dark. You look away in embarrassment.

Someone grabs you roughly from behind, twisting your arms behind you, and you let out a gasp of pain as they slam the metal cuffs into your wrists. The armed agent presses his knee into your back, forcing you onto your stomach, your cheek scraping the gravel of the roadway.

“Hey!” Sam shouts, coming around to the intersection with a group of agents aiming their guns at his back. “Watch how you’re handling her!”

More agents approach, their guns drawn at the ready, pointing them at the mysterious cat-like figure. He raises his hands, retracting his metal claws, as agents begin to cuff Steve beside you. The man brings his hands to his face, withdrawing the mask that obscured his identity.

A tiny noise of disbelief rushes past your lips as you recognize him.

“Your Highness,” Rhodey struggles to hide his own shock as he addresses the man before you—Prince T’Challa, next in line for the throne of Wakanda.

As the agents lower their weapons, cuffing the prince, another approaches you. The man who had pinned you on your stomach now grasps your face in his clammy hands. You struggle against him as the second agent crouches down, clamping a cold, metal collar around your neck.

Stifling a cry at the shock of the cold material against the warmth of your skin, you hear Steve tell Rhodey, “That isn’t necessary.”

“The girl teleports, Rogers,” he explains, the frustration building in his voice. “This ensures she doesn’t.”

The prince remains silent, never speaking a word. Your eyes travel between Steve and Sam, trying to fight the swelling waves of panic that are crashing over you as the agents pull you to your feet and lead the four of you away to a police vehicle. The officers direct you inside, ordering you to sit next to Sam. Steve and Prince T’Challa sit directly across from you.

Across the way, you spot them loading Bucky into an armored car. It looks military-grade. Your heart constricts, thinking of the man who had ordered coffee from you just hours ago, peacefully reading his novel, now being caged like a dangerous animal. He looks over his shoulder one last time, meeting your eyes once more, as he’s forced into to depths of the vehicle. You blink back the tears burning in your eyes as the steel doors of the police car are slammed shut, enclosing you into a cage of your own.

The four of you are wordless as you’re transported to the embassy. The metal collar sits uncomfortably against your neck, rubbing the skin raw. The car slows to a stop as you arrive. An agent opens the metal doors, swinging them open to reveal a crowd of reporters. The noise overwhelms you, and you glance between Steve and Sam, the panic beginning to rise up in you again.

The agent helps you out of the vehicle first, with the others following behind. As you’re escorted through the crowd towards the building, cameras and microphones are shoved into your face. They’re shouting at you, at Steve and Sam and the prince, desperate for a response. You brain is pounding against your skull.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” a reporter shouts beside you, the lens of her partner’s camera just inches from your face. You angle your head down, refusing to look up. “Are you aware that Secretary Ross is calling for your prosecution?”

You don’t answer, your eyes staying glued to the ground.

“Y/N!” Another reporter shouts. “Care to comment on your absence at the signing of the Accords this morning?”

“What were you doing in Romania with Samuel Wilson and Steven Rogers? Were you sent to protect the Winter Solider?”

At your lack of response, another reporter addresses the agent escorting you through the crowd. “Can you comment on the nature of the collar around Ms. Y/L/N’s neck?”

Your head perks up slightly at this question.

“The device will deliver a hundred miligrams of a fast-metabolizing benzodiazepine to the enhanced individual’s carotid artery upon the detection of an energy surge necessary to manipulate space,” he explains precisely, as if public relations had instructed him on exactly what to say ahead of time.

Your mind whirs at his words. _Manipulate space?_

Was that what you were doing when you teleported? _Manipulating_ space?

Your thoughts are dismissed as you’re guided towards the entrance to the building, being pulled inside. The agent leads the group to a small office. The blinds are drawn, and the four of you are made to stand up against the wall as an agent pats you down, searching for weapons. You watch as they remove Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings, confiscating them.

Another agent follows behind the first, grabbing your wrists and removing the handcuffs. Turning around to face the agents, a man you assume to be the leader of German Special Forces unit steps forward.

“Strip,” he commands unemotionally. Your eyes widen at the order, your heart picking up pace again inside your chest as you look to Steve and Sam. “Remove the suits,” he orders again.

Steve, Sam, and T’Challa avert their eyes respectfully as a female agent comes over to you, helping you out of your uniform. The skin of your cheeks is burning so hot that you could probably fry an egg on it. You hear the rustling of fabric around the room as your companions are removing their own suits.

The agent hands you a pile of carefully folded clothing, and you quickly recognize them as your own—they must have raided your flat during the chase.

“Sorry,” she apologizes in a quiet German accent. You meet her eye for a moment as she hands you a pair of jeans and a top to slide on over the tanktop and underwear you had worn under your suit. Sliding your feet into a pair of sneakers, gathers your suit up in her hands and brings it over to the pile of the others’ suits sitting in the corner of the room. You turn back towards the group, ignoring the embarrassment driving heat to your face, and stare down the commander.

“From here, we transport you to Berlin,” he explains gruffly. “No funny business on the jet and these stay off,” he gestures to the removed handcuffs in the agents’ hands.

“What about this?” You point up to the collar on your neck, raising your chin to meet his eyes.

He laughs as if you had made a joke. “It stays, _Mädel._ ”

There’s chatter over the radio in German as you hear the aircraft land on the roof above you. Nodding as he responds back into the radio, he turns to all of you and says, “Your ride has arrived. Let’s go.”

The four of you follow the man out of the small office space and through the building where he leads you to a flight of stairs. Walking up three levels, always aware of the agents’ guns aimed at your backs, you arrive at the door marked _Dach_. The man pushes you through it, and you find two quinjets awaiting you for boarding.

It takes a full team of ten men to carry Bucky, strapped down inside a special containment unit, onto the second quinet. Stealing a quick glance at Steve as you begin to board the jet meant to transport you, his worry for Bucky is written all over his face.

You strap yourself into your seat once on board, electing to sit between Steve and Sam, as the German Special Forces leader sits across from you. The quinjet’s engines roar to life as the pilot punches in the coordinates and it begins to lift off the ground. A normal flight from Bucharist to Berlin would probably take about four hours—with the quinjet, you expect to arrive within about two.

It’s silent in the bay of the jet for a long time, and you fight the urge to scratch at the metal collar around your neck. The skin definitely raw and inflamed by now, and you can feel the heat radiating from where it sits against your throat.

Sam continues to stare straight ahead, his lips pursed while looking out the windows at the clear blue sky as the jet cuts through cloud after cloud. On the other side of you, Steve sits with his knees in his lap, his shoulders hunched over. He looks exhausted—a seeming constant state of being for him lately.

Absent-mindedly, you reach up to scratch at the irritated skin at your neck.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, _Mädel_ ,” the commander says, a smirk forming on the corners of his mouth. You feel Steve adjust himself, sitting up straight next to you.

Dropping your hand back down to your lap, you say, “It’s burning my skin.”

You feel Steve’s eyes on you, examining the red hot skin of your throat. “It’s clearly hurting her,” he tells the man, an edge to his voice.

The commander shrugs. “It is either a bit of pain, or a very long sleep. She is free to decide.”

You grit your teeth before responding. “Being forced to choose between two shitty options isn’t what I’d call freedom.”

“Ah,” he chuckles a bit at that. “Funny girl. We will see how your humor serves you in a Romanian prison, little one.”

The heat rises from your neck and into your cheeks as you fix your angry gaze at him, doing your best to bore holes into him with the fire burning behind your eyes.

“You know what, man—,” Sam begins, but he’s cut off.

“Your threats are unbecoming, commander,” T’Challa speaks, his voice stunning all of you. They were the only words he had spoken since you’d been taken into custody.

The commander slowly nods his head, opening his mouth only to address him: “Your Highness.” 

T’Challa nods back, and for the first time all day, you were glad to be in his presence.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence, not unlike the transport to the embassy. When you touch down in Berlin and step off the jet, you find a motorcade waiting to escort you to the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre where agents would be waiting to investigate Bucky’s involvement in the Vienna bombing.

You’re loaded into another armored van, along with Sam, Steve, and the Wakandan prince, sirens blaring as you’re maneuvered throughout the sprawling German city. The tension in the van is palpable, growing stronger as you the motorcade gets closer to the JCTC headquarters.

“So, you like cats?” Sam asks pointedly from behind T’Challa. Both you and Steve turn to give him a look of disapproval.

_“Sam.”_

“What?” He says defensively. “Dude shows up dressed like a cat, and you don’t wanna know more?”

You roll your eyes, turning to look back out the window at the rotunda you’re now passing through. It would have been nice to be here, in Berlin, under different circumstances.

“Your suit… it’s vibranium?” Steve turns to T’Challa and asks.

The man pauses for a moment before saying solemnly, “The Black Panther has been the protector of Wakanda for generations… A mantle passed from warrior to warrior.”

 _Not a cat, then,_ you think to yourself. Black Panther _does_ sound much cooler than Black Cat.

“And now because your friend murdered my father, I also wear the mantle of king. So I ask you, as both warrior and king… how long do you think you can keep your friend safe from me?”

Tearing your eyes away from the window, you see Steve consider his words, lines forming in the space between his brows. The car is filled with silence, the tension in the air nearly suffocating you as the van pulls into the loading dock.

They remove Bucky’s containment pod from the back of a military-grade armored truck first, placing it in on a conveyor belt mechanism of sorts. As you step out of the van, you watch as Bucky sits completely unmoving as the pod is pulled up the tracks.

Approaching the entrance to the facility, a short man in three-piece suit and a pretty, Blonde woman are waiting for you. Steve glances over his shoulder at Bucky.

“What’s going to happen to him?” He asks as he marches up towards the two agents. The short man squares his shoulders to appear taller next to Steve. 

“Same thing that ought to happen to you,” he says, his mouth set in a shit-eating grin. “Psychological evaluation and extradition.

The woman next to him seems agitated as she introduces him to the group. “This is Everett Ross, Deputy Task Force Commander.”

“What about a lawyer?” Steve asks.

“Lawyer? That’s funny,” The man quips. 

You scoff. Of course there’d be no lawyers allotted in this post-Accords world Tony had been so keen for you all to sign onto.

The man ignores your reaction, telling the armed men behind him, “See that their weapons are placed in lockup.”

He nods towards the female special forces operative you’d seen back in Bucharest. She’s carrying the suits in a clear, labeled plastic container, along with Cap’s shield and Sam’s wings. You watch as she bustles past you.

Noticing Sam looking forlornly at the Falcon wings, Ross says, “We’ll write you a receipt.”

Sam huffs, beginning to follow the man inside. “I better not look out the window and find anybody flying around in that.”

Looking over your shoulder, you notice Steve casting a look over his own at Bucky. Following his eyes, you turn your gaze to the man sitting in the containment pod. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, nearly the same color as the shirt he’s wearing, and dark circles mark the area beneath his blue eyes. As he looks up, meeting your eyes, you see that he is a tired—exhausted—version of the man that had smiled so handsomely in his enlistment photo, but he’s still him. It is Bucky Barnes who stares back at you, not the Winter Soldier.

Forcing yourself to look away, you continue to follow Sam and Ross into the large, modern building. Young interns and men and women in suits, files and briefcases clutched in their hands, whiz past each other in a blur. You’re reminded of your internships at the State Department and S.H.I.E.L.D. Just a couple of years ago, you had been just an intern, rushing through the corridors of a headquarters quite similar to this one. Now you walked the halls of this government building a criminal. Funny how your life can change so quickly.

As you walk across the enclosed glass bridge connecting the loading docks and entrance to the rest of the headquarters building, Ross turns towards the Wakandan prince.

“You’ll be provided with an office instead of a cell. Now, do me a favor, stay in it?”

“I don’t intend on going anywhere,” he assures Ross, and the hair on your neck bristles.

Natasha appears in front of you, a look of disappointment on her face as she approaches Steves. “For the record,” she starts, “ _This_ is what making things worse looks like.”

Her pointed look at you makes it clear that he’s not the only one she’s disappointed in.

“He’s alive,” Steve tells her. That’s all that matters.

You can’t see over the tall shoulders of the men escorting your entourage, but you can hear Tony just up ahead. Your stomach sinks at the thought of facing him, and your hand flies up to touch the collar at your throat.

Natasha says something to the three of you over her shoulder but you ignore her, instead locking eyes with Tony as he speaks into his phone.

“Consequences? You bet there’ll be consequences,” He says sternly to whoever it is on the other end of the line. He steps towards you as he adds, “Obviously, you can quote me on that because I just said it. Anything else…?”

He awaits a response before saying, “Thank you, sir.”

He hangs up the phone, and you fight the urge to hide like a child behind Steve and Sam’s towering figures as he looks at you disapprovingly.

“‘Consequences’?” Steve asks.

“Secretary Ross wants you all prosecuted,” Tony gestures the phone in his hand at all of you. “Had to give him something.”

“I’m not getting that shield back, am I?” Steve asks, somehow finding some humor.

“Technically, it’s the government’s property,” Natasha deadpans. “Wings, too,” she looks pointedly at Sam, a smile on the edge of her lips.

Well, guess you aren’t getting that suit back, either.

“That’s cold,” Sam shakes his head.

“Warmer than jail,” Tony responds, and you know there’s gravity hidden in his sarcasm.

He glances back at you for a second, his eyes hovering for a moment at the collar on your neck, and looks to an agent standing post outside the conference room.

“Can we get that lovely, silver necklace taken off of her?” The agent nods, radioing for someone to bring up the key, and Tony simply thanks him before walking away with Natasha. Your stomach feels lighter—he didn’t seem too angry, after all.

You follow Sam and Steve over to a couples of chairs set up outside the conference room, sitting down as two agents walk over to you. One carries a small, silver key in her hand. A sigh of relief escapes your lips as she inserts it and the collar comes unclasped. It feels as if your neck is ten pounds lighter. Immediately, you bring your fingertips to your throat, ghosting over the ring of raw, chaffed skin it leaves behind.

Steve eyes you, the blue of them swimming with concern. “You alright?”

You nod and Sam tries to lighten the mood, joking, “Sure looks like you could use some vaseline on that neck, girl.”

He isn’t exactly wrong. The skin around your neck is burning, and you looked into a mirror, it wouldn’t surprise you if you saw a ring of red, irritated skin clinging to your neck like a choker.

“You’re supposed to lie and tell me I still look good,” you tease him.

Steve shakes his head in amusement at the both of you as Sam says, “Oh, I never said you weren’t looking good. A little red neck ain’t gonna take away from all of that.” He sends a joking wink your way.

“Yeah, yeah,” you dismiss him with the wave of your hand, laughing.

“Hey, you kicked ass out there today,” he tells you, and you look up to see the adoration spilling over into those his brown eyes. You flush a bit, overwhelmed by it.

Steve crosses his arms against his chest, leaning back into his seat and angling his head in your direction. “It was good seeing you in action,” he agrees. “You held your own.”

“I don’t have super strength,” you shake your head shyly. “Or wings.”

“It’s like I told you before,” Steve says, smiling at you warmly. “You don’t need any of those things.”

A fond smile plays upon your face as you remember your conversation weeks ago. T _hat big heart and big brain of yours_ , he had told you then, _those are what make you strong._

“I guess we make a pretty good team.” You look between the two of them, reflecting their adoration back at them in your own expression.

“That we do.” Sam breaks out into a grin just as Tony rounds the corner again.

“Really hate to break this up,” he interrupts, looking between the three of you. “But I’d like to borrow Cap for a minute.”

You watch as Steve lifts himself out of his chair, following Tony into the conference room. Sam exchanges a look with you.

“You think he’ll sign?” You ask him.

Sam huffs. “If there’s something in there that can protect Barnes.”

You nod silently, knowing Steve would do anything he could to help his childhood best friend.

“You gonna sign?”

Sam looks at you out the corner of his eye, and you give him a look. “What do you think?”

He laughs, shaking his head at you. “Stubborn ass.”

The two of you watch, throwing discretion to the window, as the Tony and Steve go from a discussion to full blown argument inside the room. Steve places the pen Tony had handed him back on the conference table. Tony tucks it back into his suit pocket, walking out of the room, the frustration evident on his face.

“Let me guess,” he stops to look at you. “You’re still not signing either?”

“I can’t,” you tell him.

He goes to open his mouth to say something else, but you stop him. “And it has nothing to do with Steve.”

He sighs, running his hand over his face.

“Yeah, I know.” As he walks away, he looks at you in disappointment over his shoulder. “Humanities majors, am I right?”

It’s just like Tony to mask everything with a joke.

He approaches a group of JCTC staff, and you watch as the building’s tens of television and computer screens begin to display footage from a holding room. Your chest tightens as you see Bucky appear on the screen, a man sitting at a table across from him.

The blonde woman from before approaches you, introducing herself to you as Agent Sharon Carter, before ushering you and Sam into the conference space with Steve. Sam sits at the table as she places paperwork down in front of him. Steve’s eyes are glued to the TV screen mounted to the corner of the room.

“The receipt for the your gear.”

Sam reads over the papers, throwing them down shortly after. “‘Bird costume’? Come on.”

“I didn’t write it,” she says, shrugging before reaching across the table.

Discretely, she presses a red button and sound from Bucky’s interview begins to flood the room. Steve looks around at the other agents outside through the large, glass conference room windows, ensuring no one else notices that you’re all now listening in now.

The interviewer addresses him as James, and your heart constricts when you hear Bucky’s correction: “My name is Bucky.”

You’re looking at the surveillance photos from the Vienna bombing, Bucky’s words playing over in your mind, and you begin to feel sick.

“It’s not him,” you say aloud, naming the source of the pit in your stomach. The blonde narrows her eyes in your direction, considering what you’re saying, all the while measuring you up.

“What makes you think that?” She finally asks.

You tap at the image with your finger. 

“For one,” you start, “Look at this photo. The guy—or whoever they are—in this picture looks shorter and leaner than James Barnes. His shoulders aren’t as broad, his waist’s not as narrow. I mean, look at where his head hits compared to the top of this van. There’s no way this guy’s six feet tall.”

Looking around the room, you see that Sam and Sharon still don’t seem to be buying it, but Steve’s eyes are locked firmly on yours. Noticing that you have at least his attention, you continue.

“And besides, how _could_ this be Bucky?” You question. “Sharon, what time did the bombing happen?”

She pauses for a moment before answering. “11:47 AM.”

“Okay,” you say, thinking about the time difference between Vienna and Bucharest for a moment. “So, then it was 12:47 PM in Bucharest when the bomb went off.”

“What exactly are you saying, Y/N?” Steve questions, a serious edge in his voice.

You close your eyes, trying desperately to recall the time displayed on your phone when you called Steve just after seeing Bucky in the cafe. You see the numbers flash across the screen in your mind. 

“Steve,” you turn to him, your heart leaping in your chest. “When you called me, the time on my phone… it was almost two o’clock.”

His eyes don’t move from yours for what feels like an eternity, taking in the implications of what you’re saying, before he turns to Sharon. “Could he have made it from Vienna to Bucharest in that time?”

She runs a hand through her hair, mulling it over. “With access to a quinjet, he could.”

Steve picks up the black and white security images in his hands, and you can practically see the cogs moving in his head.

“Why would the the Task Force release these photos to begin with?”

Sharon shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders. It seems like an obvious enough answer to a straight-forward question.

“Get the word out, involve as many eyes as we can?”

“Right,” Steve nods in agreement. “It’s a good way to flush a guy out of hiding. Set off a bomb, get your picture taken. Get seven billion people looking for the Winter Soldier.”

Sam’s eyes capture yours for a moment before looking down at the table, thinking through Steve’s words for himself. Your own mind is racing— _was he implying that—?_

Sharon finishes your exact thoughts aloud: “You’re saying someone framed him to find him?”

“Steve,” Sam jumps in now. “We looked for the guy for two years and found nothing until today.”

“We didn’t bomb the UN. That turns a lot of heads.”

“Yeah,” Sharon responds. “But that doesn’t guarantee that whoever framed him would get him. It guarantees that we would.”

Your stomach knots up at her words, your forehead breaking out into a cold sweat. _It guarantees that we would._

Steve and Sam’s minds are working at the same pace as your own, both of them looking up at the interviewer on the screen in near unison. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, his eyes unmoving from to the screen. It feels like you’re on the edge of something so large, if you peer over the ledge, it might just consume you. You realize you’ve been holding your breath and let out a small exhale.

Almost as if on queue, the room—the entire building—goes black around you. As you’re surrounded by nothing but darkness, you fight back an urge to vomit at the familiar mix of anxiety and adrenaline pushing your heart into overdrive inside your chest.

Barely able to make out her form in the dark, you hear Sharon across the room. “Sub-level five, East Wing.”

Your feet move ahead of you, breaking out into a run, to keep up with Sam and Steve as the three of you barrel into the darkness ahead.


	5. Use It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that I struggle hard with writing action scenes, but I feel pretty happy with this chapter. As an added bonus, we get some Bucky POV at the end!

The hallway is littered with the stilled bodies of JCTC agents, knocked out cold. You move past them quickly, trailing behind the two men as you struggle to keep even footing in the unlit facility.

As you round the corner, you just barely make out another body lying in the darkness. There’s movement.

“Help me…,” he cries out feebly. “Help.”

Instantly, you recognize his voice as that of the interviewer. You roll your eyes at his theatrics, thinking he could have at least considered acting lessons before attempting to pull all of this off.

“Get. Up,” Steve orders, grabbing him roughly by the material of his shirt. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Your breath hitches in your throat as he says simply, “To see an empire fall.”

You’d been so caught up in watching the interaction between Steve and the man that you nearly scream as a fist connects with the wall beside you, Sam barely dodging the blow. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, you make out Bucky’s tall form, metal arm pulling back from the hole it’s made in the plaster, standing just inches away from you.

Transporting yourself atop his shoulders in microseconds, you tighten your thighs around his neck, interlocking your ankles to keep yourself steady.

“Bucky!” you scream out at him. “Stop!”

Bucky grips at your thigh roughly with his flesh hand, reaching up to pull you by the hair with his metal arm. Taking you by your ponytail, he lifts you off his shoulders with ease, slamming you into the wall he’s just punched a hole through. The air evacuates your lungs on impact.

Sam rushes him. His metal arm catches Sam around the jaw, and there’s a sickening thud as he’s thrown into the containment pod that had once housed Bucky. Sam’s body goes limp as you watch in horror, trying to force the air to return to your lungs.

Steve jumps in now, forgetting the other man entirely, and throws a punch at Bucky. It seems to unphase him, and the two grapple further out into the hallway. As you struggle to pick yourself up, Bucky swings at Steve, missing and instead indenting the metal elevator doors.

Back on your feet, you teleport yourself onto the man’s shoulders again, just as he’s positioning himself to deal another blow in Steve’s direction. You lock your thighs around his throat once more, touching your elbows together above your head and using their points as a weapon, hitting Bucky in the head repeatedly.

“You’re really starting to piss me off,” You tell the man breathlessly, throwing all your force into the blows you’re delivering to the top of his head.

He growls at you in annoyance, driving himself backwards, slamming your back forcefully into the wall. You groan out in pain but don’t have much time to recover as he’s reaching out with his metal arm, grabbing you around the neck and lifting you up as if you were weightless.

His hand digs into the painful red reminder of the German Forces’ metal collar, but your yelp of pain is strangled in your throat as he begins to crush your windpipe. Panic sets in. Your hands, so tiny in comparison to his own, pathetically scratch as his metal fingers in an attempt to release yourself.

Eyes welling up with tears, you stare back into those steely, gray irises. They’re cold, unfeeling, and unseeing. There is no recognition, no emotion. These are not the eyes of Bucky Barnes, you realize. Dark spots begin to cloud your vision as the Winter Soldier chokes the life from you.

The connection of Steve’s fist to the Soldier’s temple causes him to release you, the two of them beginning to grapple once more. You slide down the wall, slumping up against it. Your chest shudders wildly as you take in air again, coughing violently as the oxygen catches against every sore point along your throat.

The skin around your neck is on fire as you begin to regain your vision just in time to watch Bucky knock Steve down into the elevator shaft. He lands with a loud thud as Bucky turns away coldly, beginning to march up the stairs.

Your legs shake beneath you as you try to stand, willing yourself to check on Steve at the bottom of the shaft. Adjusting yourself on your hands and knees, you crawl to the ledge of the elevator and hold your breath as you peer down, unsure of what you’ll find.

Steve lies face down at the bottom, already beginning to roll himself over on his back. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as his groans echo up the chamber.

“Hey!” Sam calls out, causing you to look over your shoulder. The interviewer is behind you, attempting to make his way up the stairs.

Exchanging a look with Sam, he calls out to you, “I’m on him.” You nod, gladly letting him chase down the man, as you look back down at Steve before teleporting yourself into the elevator shaft with him.

“Come on, old man,” You offer your hand weakly, helping to pull him to his feet.

His eyes settle on the inflamed ring around your neck, now beginning to purple in the shape of a handprint. You quickly cover it with your hand.

“I’m fine,” You try to brush off his worry, but he sees right through you.

“You’re scared.” He says it gently, and there is no taunting, no teasing, not a single drop of ill intent in his voice. “And that’s okay.”

You nod, a tear spilling from your eyes as you replay it in your mind: the metal arm around your neck, crushing your throat, cold blue eyes staring into your own as life faded from them.

“He was killing me. I was dying—I was so afraid to die,” you choke out, a tiny sob rattling in your chest. The freedom he had allowed you to admit you were terrified had opened up a well of emotion, and it all comes spilling out of you like a broken dam.

He crushes you into a hug, pulling you against his chest. “It’s okay,” he reassures you. “It’s okay to be scared. Fear—sometimes it’s a weapon in its own right.”

Removing yourself from his chest, you look up at him, considering what he’s said. His eyes are gentle and kind, but you see that familiar look of determination on his face. He pats you on the back before walking away.

“Use it,” he calls out over his shoulder, beginning to climb up the elevator shaft.

You nod to yourself, wiping away at the last of the tears on your face, and will yourself to focus. Within seconds, you’re in the atrium of the building, chaos erupting around you.

With eyes still rimmed red with the aftermath of crying, you lock your sights on the Winter Soldier across the room. Squaring your shoulders, you close your eyes and tune into the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat, using it to ground yourself. Opening your eyes, you tune out every sound except that of your own heart thumping wildly against your rib cage. It pounds there violently, inside your chest cavity, and for the first time in your life, you don’t beg it to steady.

_Thud, thud._

You’re behind the Winter Soldier in an instant, your arm swinging upwards with speed to catch him upside the temple. The blow connects and before he can turn his full attention on you, you’re already across the room, grabbing a forgotten baton that had been dropped in the chaos of the fight.

_Thud, thud, thud._

You’re on his right, cracking it across his back. He staggers a bit, feeling the impact, and turns forcefully on his heel to reach up to grab you.

_Thud, thud._

The baton reverberates against the metal of his arm, blocking him. His eyes meet yours for a second, and you bite back a shudder as you see that they are still cold and gray and unrecognizing.

_Thud, thud. Thud, thud._

“You’re name is Bucky,” you tell him between gritted teeth, delivering another blow with the baton to his midsection.

_Thud, thud._

He grabs the baton with his metal hand, twisting it from you in one swift, graceful motion as his flesh fist finds an opening, connecting with your face. Your lip throbs at the contact, tasting metal on your tongue. In the seconds it takes for you to collect yourself, he’s already moved to take advantage of your faltering. Your heart accelerates as his metal hand reaches up towards your throat once more, repeating his move from your horrifying tangle earlier.

_Thud, thud._

The rhythm of your heart beating is sporadic, deafeningly loud in your ears, as you watch him reach out to wrap his hand around your neck in seemingly slow-motion. Suddenly, everything around you slows to a crawl. Your fingertips begin to numb, all sensation draining from them, and you’re reminded of how your mouth feels at the dentist after a shot of novacaine. Looking down to the source of the feeling, you’re shocked to see that you can make out the tile pattern of the atrium floor through their transparency. A clear, blue film seems to encase your fingertips, spreading quickly up your hand as well.

The tiniest amount of pressure, less than that of a feather, alerts you that there is something resting in your right hand. A translucent, metal key shines brightly in your palm for just a second before disappearing out of view.

The corners of your vision begin to darken—you’re barely able to make out movement in your peripheral.

Just as the Wakandan prince slams into the Winter Soldier, forcing him to drop his hold on you, the darkness in the corners of your vision envelope your sight completely. You’re vaguely aware of a radiating pain at the base of your skull as you fall backwards, your head connecting with the floor beneath you.

In the darkness that now consumes you, there is not even the sound of your own heart beating.

* * *

The wooden door is in front of you again, the soft blue incandescence slipping from its cracks like before. There is nothing else surrounding you, just infinite and absolute darkness, but you are not afraid.

 _Hello, child_. The woman’s voice is close, her breath tickling your ear, but you only perceive the darkness as you turn in search of her.

 _I am not here,_ she says with a light, airy laugh. The sound of it is haunting, beautiful… ancient.

_I see you have found the key._

As she speaks, the small key again materializes where there had been nothing only seconds before. Running your thumb over it, the cold of the metal brushes against your skin, and you know without a doubt that it is real.

 _But how?_ You wonder aloud. _Where did it come from?_

She responds simply: _It found you when you were ready._

A keyhole suddenly appears in the door’s knob, your eyes widening in surprise as you feel a gentle force pushing you forward, towards the glowing doorway. Reaching your arm out in front of you, you find that the key inserts itself with ease. It’s a perfect fit.

Slowly, you turn the key to the right, hearing a soft _click_ when the lock has been cleared. You hesitate, staring at your hand hovering just above the knob.

 _Open it,_ she tells you. _You are ready._

Turning the knob with her reassurance, you open the door, it’s hinges creaking in response. You blink back in disbelief as you stare into what has been waiting for you all along on the other side.

The entire universe is splayed out before you. There is not a corner of it that you cannot see.

There is darkness, like before, but in it is light—so much light. Stars wink in and out at you from their homes in the blackness of it all. What must be lightyears away, you watch as one extinguishes, imploding in a fantastic fireball of light. Darkening in death, it falls through the vacuum of space, and you trail it with your eyes as it hurtles into a tiny, purple sphere out across the way.

Cosmos—entire galaxies—stretch out before and around you, their endless pastel and neon tendrils like the clouds of a Van Gogh painting. Tiny planets float within them, unchanged by your sudden presence among them. It all seems so endlessly far away, yet so close you couch reach out and touch stroke them with your fingers.

Slowly, you lift your hand towards a particularly bright, white star in the distance, and in awe, you watch as it grows closer and closer to you. It is as if your hand were a magnet it could not escape as it flies into the palm of your hand, your fingers closing gently around it.

Gasping at the sensation of its warmth in your hand, you release it and watch as it floats back to where it had been stationed moments before.

 _What is this?_ You ask the formless woman, but you already know—deep within you—that it is endless space that stares back at you.

She ignores you, understanding without the need for words that you have your answer within, so instead you ask: _What does this mean?_

 _It is yours to master,_ the woman explains simply. Her voice sounds like it is a million miles away now.

 _To manipulate,_ you respond, mimicking the phrase that had bothered you so much just hours ago. Now, standing here among the cosmos, it feels like they had been uttered to you in another lifetime.

 _Yes._ Her voice is barely audible.

_But how?_

She speaks, answering you, but her voice is fading back into nothingness, along with the image of the universe before you. There is no way to make out her answer as you feel yourself being pulled backwards, through the open door behind you.

* * *

“She’s been seizing for five minutes!” Natasha yells out from somewhere close by you, the words garbled. It sounds as if you’re hearing them from underwater. “Requesting medevac!”

“Pulse is becoming less erratic,” the blonde, Sharon’s, voice notes. The sound is much clearer, and you are vaguely aware of someone’s fingers pressed against your neck.

Your eyes are heavy, so very heavy, as you struggle to open them.

“She’s conscious,” Sharon alerts the other woman who drops to her knees beside you.

You blink in confusion, taking in your surroundings. Suddenly, you become very painfully aware of a throbbing at the back of your head.

Gingerly, you reach up and touch the spot with your fingers. “My head…,” you groan weakly, feeling the warm wetness of blood.

“You had a seizure,” Nat explains, her green eyes large with concern. “You hit the floor pretty hard on your way down.”

“A seizure?” You begin to gain some recollection, the cloudiness of your mind fading faster by the second.

She nods. Images flood your mind—your fingers, translucent, the marble floor visible through them… blue film envelopes them… a key in your palm, there one second and gone the next.

You sit up rapidly, briefly wincing at the movement, and Sharon reaches out to steady you. “You need to rest,” she tells you. “Someone from medical will be here any second to check you out.”

“No, no,” You insist, trying to push yourself up on your feet. Panic rises within you at both the thought of having to see a doctor and the memories now returning to you.

“Doesn’t like doctors,” Natasha explains your reaction to the blonde, noting her confused expression.

“Nat,” you begin to ask her, unable to hide the desperation in your impending question. “Earlier, before I—before the seizure… Were my fingers… blue? Could you—could you see through them?”

You stumble over the words, afraid of how you’d sound saying them. The look exchanged between the two women fills you with dread, confirming your fear.

“Maybe you should lie back down,” Natasha says, searching your eyes for something as she tries to gently lay you back on the floor.

Shaking your head, you brush off her hand. “I have to go,” you tell her.

Her eyes widen. “Y/N, don’t—!”

You’re already gone, never hearing the rest of her sentence, as you’re standing outside the headquarters’ building. A crowd of people rush past you, yelling in panic, as sirens and alarms alert civilians to evacuate the premises.

The back of your head throbs as you search the chaos of the crowd for Sam and Steve. _Where were they?_ You’re just about to teleport yourself back to the elevator shaft to see if Steve got out okay when a loud crash captures you’re attention. Swiveling your head in the direction of the noise, you see a helicopter falling into the canal that surrounds the roadway. A large, angry splash of water sprays the screaming evacuees. Squinting your eyes, you notice two familiar heads pop up in the water, just feet away from where the remnants of the helicopter’s blades are sinking.

Teleporting yourself to the edge of the canal, you watch as Steve struggles to pull Bucky out of the water. Helping him get the man onto the grass, you collapse down next to his soaking wet, unconscious form. Bucky’s chest rises and falls, and you’re relieved to see that he’s alive.

Steve takes in the image of you laying there, a split lip and a touch of blood wetting your hair, and opens his mouth to say something when the honking of a car horn interrupts him.

“Get in!” Sam yells to the two of you, leaning out of the driver’s side of an insanely small car.

Steve exchanges a look with you, and the two of you bite back a smile as you gather Bucky up in your arms, heaving him into the backseat. You slide in beside him as Steve takes the passenger’s seat, aware that to any observers, the four of you would like like you were getting away in a clown car.

Sam presses down on the gas, the little car zipping impressively down the busy street as Sam weaves you in and out of traffic. Glancing in the rearview mirror to watch for anyone tailing you, he catches a sight of your disheveled appearances.

“The _hell_ happened to you guys?”

Steve goes first. “Stopped Bucky from taking off in a helicopter, but not before crashing it into the canal.”

“Of course you did,” Sam says sarcastically. “And what about you back there?”

“A seizure,” you answer, honestly not sure what else to call whatever it was that had happened to you.

Both men turn their heads to stare at you, their eyebrows raised. Neither of them had been expecting your response.

“ _A seizure?_ ” Steve parrots. “ _Jesus_ , Y/N.”

“I feel alright now,” you tell them. “My head’s just killing me—Nat said I hit it on the way down.”

“No shit,” Sam huffs, his eyes resting on the dried blood sticking to your hair from the rearview mirror.

“At least let us take a look at that when we stop,” Steve gestures to your head, and the tone of his voice makes it clear that he’s telling you rather than asking.

You nod in agreement, and he lets out an exasperated sigh before turning back around in his seat to face the road ahead. Looking at the back of his head, you wonder how he doesn’t have any gray hairs at this rate. You’ve been at this whole superhero thing for a little over a year and already feel aged by the demands of the job.

Out the corner of your eye, you steal a glance at Bucky, slumped over in the seat next to you. His long, wet brown hair partially covers his face. In this light, you notice he has the faintest dusting of freckles across his nose. He looks peaceful— _beautiful_.

You immediately shake away that thought, a faint flush creeping into your cheeks.

“Where are we going?” You ask neither of the men in particular, welcoming a distraction from your throbbing head and the draw of the man lying next to you.

“Somewhere to lay low.” Sam answers, checking the rearview again. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

* * *

Bucky stirs, waking with a quiet groan.

“Doesn’t look like it’ll need stitches,” he hears a man’s voice say. “But try not to hit it again.”

A light, girlish laugh floats across the room. “Oh, thanks for the advice. I’ll have to keep that in mind for the next time I have a seizure.”

“What do you think caused it?” A deep, familiar voice asks. Steve’s voice. “You said you’ve had them before?”

“I don’t know,” The girl says, and Bucky tries to place her voice. Does he know her? “I had one, once before, about two years ago.”

The trio is silent for a moment, and Bucky seizes upon the lull in their conversation to let them know that he’s awake.

“Steve?” He calls out, his voice raspy from misuse, looking around the empty room. Bucky blinks, thinking his eyes are playing tricks on him, as the girl appears out of thin air in front of him.

“He’s awake!” She calls out, looking over her shoulder at the men stalking into the room from behind her.

Seeing her features clearly, he realizes he had been right after all—he did recognize her voice. She had served him coffee, back in Bucharest.

“Which Bucky am I talking to?” Steve asks suspiciously. 

His eyes look past Steve for a moment, taking in the girl’s face. She had been wearing glasses before—his mind struggles with that image, flashing back to remember what was printed on the name tag that had been pinned to her shirt.

“Your mom’s name was Sarah,” he tells Steve as he remembers. “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”

He laughs wearily at the image of a much smaller Steve—so unlike the large, muscular man in front of him now—trying so hard to keep his shoes from sliding off his heels.

Steve seems to consider him for a moment, taking in what he’s said, before finally smiling. “Can’t read that in a museum.”

The man beside him scoffs. “Just like that, we’re suppose to be cool?”

Bucky feels a familiar dread building inside of him as he takes in the man’s words. He glances at the girl again, now noticing her split lip. He nearly blanches white when his eyes travel down her face to her neck, seeing the hand shaped bruise wrapped around it. 

“What did I do?” He asks, unable to tear his eyes away from her, knowing in the pit of his stomach that his own metal hand must have been responsible for the mark at her throat.

“Enough,” Steve answers, the edge in his voice so sharp it could cut Bucky in two.

The girl eyes him carefully, her fingers absent-mindedly rubbing at her neck, and Bucky can’t stand the guilt rising up like a tidal wave within him, threatening to drown him at any moment.

“Oh, God,” he nearly whispers. “I knew this would happen. Everything HYDRA put inside me is still there. All he had to do was say the goddamn words.”

The girl’s eyes soften at his words, and Bucky has to look away from her. He doesn’t want— _doesn’t deserve_ —her pity.

“Who was he?” Steve directs at him.

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“People are dead. The bombing, the setup. The doctor did all that just to get ten minutes with you. I need you to do better than ‘I don’t know.’”

His voice is authoritative, commanding. Bucky realizes that this is a version of his childhood best friend that he’d never met before. He struggles to recollect those last moments in the containment pod before it finally dawns on him.

“He wanted to know about Siberia. Where I was kept. He wanted to know exactly where.”

“Why would he need to know that?”

Bucky feels like he might be sick.

“Because I’m not the only Winter Soldier.”

A breath of air escapes from the lips girl’s lips in surprise, and the muscle in Steve’s jaw works in tension. He continues to ask Bucky about the other supersoldiers, and Bucky does his best to answer with everything he knows about them. With each additional tidbit of information, the tension in the room grows stronger.

“Said he wanted to see an empire fall,” Steve says, repeating the doctor’s words back to everyone.

“With these guys, he could do it,” Bucky says hauntingly. “They speak 30 languages, can hide in plain sight, infiltrate, assassinate, destabilize. They can take a whole country down in one night. You’d never see them coming.”

He watches Steve’s face carefully as he considers the information, and Bucky knows he’s already running a million scenarios through he mind. He notices the girl’s face has paled a bit at his words.

The other man steps over to Steve, lowering his voice. “This would have been a lot easier a week ago.”

Steve seems to agree. “If we call Tony…”

“No,” the man shakes his head. “He won’t believe us.”

“Even if he did…” Steve trails off.

“Who knows if the Accords would let him help.”

The girl pipes up now, her voice sure. “They won’t.”

The trio exchanges a look, seemingly communicating silently between them.

“We’re on our own,” Steve speaks their mutual agreement aloud. 

The girl nods, but the second man’s lips begin to tug up into a knowing smile.

“Maybe not,” he says. “I know a guy.”

Steve and the girl share another look of their own before she turns to Sam, asking the question on Bucky’s mind too. “Who?”

“Let me make a call,” he says, “While you two load Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde over there into the car.” Sam gestures to Bucky and he feels himself bristle at the nickname, irritation at the man putting a scowl on his face.

The scowl disappears as the girl appears beside him again, completely out of nowhere, and Bucky blinks back in surprise. Steve notices his expression and chuckles, watching as she begins to remove the chains from Bucky’s wrist.

“Buck,” Steve says. “This is Y/N. Guess I should introduce the two of you.”

_Y/N?_

“We’ve met,” she reminds him, a faint tint of color in her cheeks as she turns to face him. “Only he met me as Sarah.”

“That’s right,” Steve recalls, smiling. “What was it–Sarah Friedman?”

A teasing smile plays upon her lips as she jokes, “Good memory for an old man.”

Steve just rolls his eyes at her, the smile never leaving his lips, and Bucky wonders if they’re an item.

“I was undercover, looking for you actually,” she explains, turning to look at Bucky now as the three of them walk out to the tiny car parked in the wood-line just behind the old, abandoned building. Bucky nods silently, understanding now.

“Sorry about that, Bucky—,” She begins to apologize, and Bucky looks up at her in surprise. No one besides Steve had called him that in a very long time.

Noticing his reaction, she catches herself, apologizing again. “Sorry, uh, Sergeant Barnes.”

“No, no. Bucky’s good—it’s fine,” he assures her as he slides into the backseat of the car. In spite of himself, he likes the way his nickname sounds coming from her. It’s friendly, familiar, and it makes him feel just a bit more like that version of himself who had lived in Brooklyn all those years ago.

She flushes a bit, sliding in next to him and pulling the door shut behind her. “Okay.”

Steve ducks his head in the drivers’ side door, telling them, “Might make a few calls myself.”

Y/N nods as he closes the door again, leaving the two in the car alone. Bucky squirms against the leather seat, his clothes still damp and clinging to him uncomfortably. Looking out the corner of his eye, he sees that she’s watching Steve, pacing with the phone up to his ear, from the window.

He racks his brain for something to say.

“So, you can make yourself just… pop up anywhere, out of thin air?”

He groans internally at himself that _this_ is the conversation starter he lands upon. He doesn’t remember ever being this awkward around dames before. She laughs lightly at his question, though, and the sound of it makes him feel a bit better.

“Yeah,” she confirms with a smile. “I can teleport.”

Bucky’s never seen anything like it, and if he’s being honest with himself, he’s fascinated by her—if not a little uncomfortable with her seemingly supernatural gift.

“ _Teleport_?” He repeats to himself. “How long you been doing that?”

He worries the question might be a bit too forward when she pauses, mulling it over, but he’s instantly relieved when she begins to tell him it’s been about two years since the first time she realized that she could transport herself using just her mind. 

“Bet it makes traveling a hell of a lot easier,” he remarks, thinking about how convenient it must be to just go wherever you want, whenever you want.

Y/N shrugs. “It’s got its limitations,” she explains simply, and Bucky notices something different in her voice. For the first time in their albeit brief acquaintanceship, she doesn’t sound so sure of herself.

He doesn’t push her anymore about her abilities, worried he might just push too far. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. She’s nice from what he’s seen, and Steve sure as hell seems to like her.

“Can I ask what you were reading?” She asks suddenly, and seeing his brows come together in confusion at her question, she adds, “In the coffee shop, back in Bucharest?”

His cheeks flush as he answers honestly. “It was a history book about, uh, the war… and about Steve and what happened after.”

It sounded pathetic to him even as he said it, and he almost wished he had lied to her, coming up with something that sounded better on the spot. He never was any good at lying, though.

Her eyes light up a bit as she says, “Oh, I _love_ history. If you ever want to know anything, you can just ask me. I went to the Smithsonian as a kid with my mom and brother, and they have this whole exhibit on you and Steve and—,”

Her voice falters, redness flooding her face, as she notices the bewildered expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” she apologizes frantically, her voice rising an octave. “I shouldn’t have said that. It must be so weird to have someone offer to tell you about your own life.”

“It’s weird,” he agrees, and he regrets it as he watches her face fall. “But, uh, thanks—the offer’s nice.”

She offers him a small, but noticeably deflated, smile as Steve climbs into the driver’s seat in front of her, the car creaking with his added weight. He adjusts his seat, allowing himself the extra legroom he needs now that he’s a supersoldier giant of a man. Bucky still wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to seeing Steve like that.

Y/N stretches her legs out comfortably behind him, and it’s only now that he notices just how _tiny_ she is compared to him. Realizing that he could easily have a whole foot on her, not to mention at least a hundred pounds, he’s filled with shame yet again as his eyes return to the bruise on her neck.

She must feel his eyes on her because she turns to him and says gently, “It’s fine. I know that wasn’t you.”

Bucky feels his heart skip a beat in his chest as she says it, her eyes reflecting the sincerity in her words. He swallows difficulty, not knowing what to say in response, and he’s thankful when the other man jumps into the passenger’s seat in front of him, drawing away Steve and Y/N’s attention. 

“Alright, Sam,” Steve says to the man, and Bucky takes note of his name. “We good to go?”

Sam lets out a hum of confirmation as he settles into his seat, fidgeting with the adjusters. He scoots it backwards, knocking the back of the seat into Bucky’s knees, pissing him off.

The car pulls away from the treeline and onto the deserted roadway as Y/N leans forward in between the two front seats.

“Either of you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Sam looks out the corner of his eye at Steve, waiting for his answer first.

“Right now, we’re on our way to meet Sharon,” he says, and Y/N leans back into the leather seat, smiling to herself. That name means virtually nothing to Bucky, but her reaction tells him it certainly means _something_.

“Who’s Sharon?” Bucky asks, curiosity getting the best of him.

Steve glances up in the rearview. “A colleague.”

Y/N smirks to herself again at that but doesn’t say anything. _Whatever the hell that means,_ Bucky thinks to himself.

“And after that?” She asks. “What, we go to Siberia?”

“Along with some reinforcements,” Steve confirms.

Y/N seems to be thinking for a moment before she begins to list off names Bucky’s never heard of before. “Wanda… Clint… the three of us… who else is there?”

Sam turns and gives her that grin that’s starting to really work Bucky’s nerves. It’s the type of smile that says ‘I know something you don’t’.

“A guy I meet a few years back, tried out for the Avengers,” he tells her.

Y/N makes a face. “’ _Tried out?’_ What, he didn’t make it?” She asks, an eyebrow raised. “Are we _sure_ we want his help?”

Sam chuckles at her, shaking his head. “Oh, sorry, little Miss Hot Stuff,” he teases. “Can’t everybody be Avengers material hot off the press—you’re just something special.”

She flushes at that, and Bucky feels his jaw twitch involuntarily. He didn’t really know this Sam guy, but he sure was working a nerve.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “I think I’m just in a bad mood because I’m starving.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam huffs, and Bucky thinks about his own empty stomach, watching Y/N’s hand rub at hers. 

“Can’t exactly stop at a McDonald’s with half of Germany looking for us.” Steve glances back through the rearview mirror.

“Probably more than half,” Bucky corrects him. 

“I know,” she tells them glumly, looking back out the window in silence, seemingly lost in thought.

The remainder of the ride is quiet, Bucky zoning out for a moment himself until he begins to feel the car rolling to a stop. Steve parks the car under a quiet overpass, pulling up behind an all-black, newer model sedan. As Steve steps out the driver’s side door, a pretty blonde exits the vehicle ahead and approaches him.

“ _That’s_ Sharon,” Y/N tells Bucky, her lips tugged up into a playful smile.

The three of you watch Steve and Sharon talking, no one saying a word until Sharon pops the trunk of her car. Bucky strains his neck to take see what’s inside, and beside him, Y/N is leaning over the front seat to get a look of her own.

She beams, a real smile lighting up her face, as she nearly squeals, “ _My suit!_ ”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Sam seems to share her enthusiasm, reaching across to high-five her. “Wings are _back_ , baby.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at him referring to her as baby, his irritation at the man seated in front of him growing by the minute. Suddenly, the feeling of his seat against his knees is driving him crazy.

“Can you move your seat up?” Bucky asks, a look of annoyance on his face.

“No.”

Y/N groans out from next to him, rolling her eyes. “Just switch with me,” she tells him.

He opens his mouth to protest, but she’s already standing up. As she begins to scoot across his lap, Bucky nearly chokes at the contact. A small cough erupts from his lips. She plops down in his former seat next to him wordlessly, peering around Sam now to continue watching the conversation play out between Steve and Sharon.

Sam turns in his seat to look at him, that shit-eating, knowing smile back on his face. “You alright back there, Barnes?”

Bucky feels the heat rise to his face. “Shut up.”

“ _Both of you shut up_ ,” Y/N snaps at them, not removing her eyes from the windshield. “ _Look._ ”

As Sam and Bucky follow her gaze, neither can help but smile at the sight of Steve and Sharon exchanging a kiss.

“ _I knew it.”_ Y/N throws herself backwards with the force of her laughter, tilting her head back as the sound of it tumbles from her lips, lifting even Bucky’s mood.

 _Well, guess that answers my question_ , Bucky thinks to himself while taking in the sight of her, so tiny and full of life, seated next to him. _She and Steve definitely weren’t a thing._

Times had certainly changed in the decades since Bucky had fallen off that train car, but something told him that even in this modern world, a lady like Y/N wouldn’t be all that happy to see her beau kissing up on another woman.


	6. Civil War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to be honest with you—I really struggled with this chapter, and I’m still not fully happy with it. This is also where the timeline of events between CA:CW and IW is going to start to diverge a bit from MCU canon, so please just hang in there with me! Also, fair warning—there is a detailed mention of a panic attack in this part.

In any other circumstance, you’d be creeped out—anxious even—by the empty parking structure and the appearance of a lone gray van, but you smile as two familiar faces climb out from its doors.

“Cap,” Clint nods, acknowledging Steve.

“You know I wouldn’t have called if I had any other choice,” Steve tells the man.

“Hey, you’re doing me a favor,” Clint holds up his hands before gesturing to Wanda. “Besides, I owe a debt.”

Steve turns to her. “Thanks for having my back.”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “It was time to get off my ass.”

“How about our other recruit?” Steve asks Clint, and you exchange a glance with Sam.

Clint scratches at the back of his head. “He’s rarin’ to go. Had to put a little coffee in him, but… he should be good.”

In almost perfect timing, a man you’ve never seen before rolls out from the van’s doors, and you know that this must be the man Sam had mentioned earlier. He looks disheveled, as if he’d been napping.

“What time zone is this?” He asks the larger group, his eyes squinting in confusion.

Bucky huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Come on, come on,” Clint tells the man, picking up his slouching form by the material of his shirt.

As the man straightens, he locks eyes on Steve and it’s like he’s just met his own personal hero. The smile plastered on his face is one of child-like amazement.

You have to bite back a giggle as he reaches out, shaking Steve’s hand, saying his name in awe: “Captain America.”

“Mr. Lang,” Steve acknowledges, and you don’t miss the twinge of bemusement in his voice.

“It’s an honor,” Lang says, continuing to shake Steve’s hand. You look over to Sam and Bucky who both share your look of amusement. 

“I’m shaking your hand too long,” the man says, finally ending the awkward handshake.

“Wow! This is awesome. Captain America!” He says loudly, finally tearing his eyes away from Steve to look around the rest of the space. You’re starting to wish that Clint hadn’t given him that coffee.

Lang turns his attention to Wanda. “I know you. You’re great!” She offers a small smile.

“Oh, and I know you, too!” He says, pointing at you. “Just awesome.”

You give him a smile, a faint pinkness rising to your cheeks. It was still strange being recognized.

Scott turns his attention back to Steve for another awkward moment before looking past his shoulder over at Sam. “Hey, man!”

“Hey, Tic-Tac,” Sam nods, a grin on his lips.

As they’re talking, Wanda saunters over to you, a smile playing upon her face as she says, “The compound was a little _too_ quiet without you.”

You wrap her in a quick hug. As you’re breaking apart, you begin to tease her. 

“I’m sure Vision kept you company.”

She cuts her eyes at you. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Shaking your head at her playfully, you hear the tail-end of Steve’s conversation with Lang. “

We’re outside the law on this one. You come with us, and you’re a wanted man.”

Bucky eyes you, having been listening to that discussion as well. “You good with that?”

Taking in a deep breath at the thought, you tell him, “I’m kind of already wanted across half of Europe.”

If you were being honest, the idea of it did make you feel sick. All day, you’d been pushing away thoughts of your family—your mom, Robbie. You couldn’t bear to imagine them watching the news coverage, not now. That could come later, when the fight was over.

Bucky seems to analyze your face for a moment, almost as if trying to read your thoughts, before nodding. “We should get moving,” he warns, projecting his voice across the empty parking garage.

“We got a chopper lined up,” Clint announces, slinging his gear over his shoulder.

Just then, alarms begin blaring overhead. There’s a warning repeated in German, echoing across the garage.

“They’re evacuating the airport,” Bucky translates for the group.

You exchange a knowing look with Sam and Steve.

“Stark.” Sam voices what the three of you already know aloud.

Lang looks confused. “ _Stark?_ ”

Steve dismisses him, ordering to the larger group instead: “Suit up.”

Bucky pops the trunk of the tiny, battered car at Steve’s words, revealing the pile of previously-confiscated suits and weapons. Pulling the gray of its material out from underneath Cap’s shield, you gather your suit up in your arms, clutching it to your chest.

As nervous as you are for what’s about to come, you won’t pretend that you’re not at least a bit excited to wear that suit again.

* * *

Lang’s already kicked off his shoes and begins to drop his pants to his ankles, revealing a pair of white boxer briefs, when Bucky notices.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky complains, looking over at Y/N and the dark-haired girl next to her. Doesn’t he have any respect? There were ladies around for Christ’s sake.

“We can change in the van,” the girl tells Y/N, her accent thick and Eastern European. Bucky can’t place it. He watches as the two women walk away, the smaller of the two struggling to jump into the back of the van for a moment before the doors swing closed behind them. 

_Why didn’t she just teleport inside?_ He wonders.

Not having a suit to change into, Bucky leans up against the frame of the tiny car, staring out at the airstrip ahead.

He replays Steve’s words. _A wanted man_. Bucky had spent the last two years being just that—a criminal with a constant target on his back. It was a life of paranoia, of constantly looking over your own shoulder. It was lonely. For two years, every interaction he’d had with another human being had been limited to polite conversations with store clerks—or coffee shop employees.

He thought of when he’d first met Y/N. She had seemed so _normal_ , like any other college kid he’d seen around the city. From what he’d gathered so far, he supposed she was just a normal girl—besides the whole teleportation thing. She probably had a family, a whole life, that she’d be throwing away if this went any further.

Bucky looked around at the other men, suited up and ready for action. For the most part, they seem pretty normal, too. Bucky wasn’t too sure about the Lang guy. He was a little strange—too tightly wound—but Clint and Sam both seemed like the type of guys Bucky might’ve served with back in 1945.

Steve was putting a lot of trust in him at the sacrifice of these people’s lives, and the idea of it made him uncomfortable.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as the van doors slide open, the smaller of the women jumping from the ledge and onto the ground with a tiny thud. As she stands, she beams brightly at Sam.

“Suit got you feeling yourself now, huh?” He jokes, gesturing towards her.

“What can I say,” she says, shrugging her shoulders playfully against the material. “It’s like it was made for me.”

She wasn’t wrong—the suit fit her well. Most importantly, it looked functional. The dark blue metal seemed perfectly positioned to protect her vital organs, and he noticed that she moved especially quickly in it, the lightweight material allowing her to cut through the air with grace. In a way, the suit resembled a modern suit of armor. It reminded Bucky of books about knights and dragons he used to read as a kid, and he thought she looked like she could at least knock Lang flat on his ass in it.

“Alright,” Steve says seriously, drawing everyone—including Bucky—back to the task at hand. “Let’s move.”

* * *

From the terminal, you crouch down next to Sam and Bucky, watching the scene play out on the airstrip below as the two men scan the area for Stark’s quinjet. Steve stands alone, confronting a gathering of Tony, Rhodes, T’Challa, and Natasha on the strip.

“I should be down there,” you grumble.

Sam doesn’t take his eyes off the tablet as he reminds you, “Cap wants you up here.”

Suddenly, someone in a red suit comes swinging into your field of view. Something shoots out of his him, binding Steve’s hands together in front of him, as the suited figure drops down gracefully behind Tony.

“Who the hell is that?” You wonder aloud.

The two men ignore you, and as you look over your shoulder at them, you see that Sam’s just zeroed in on the location of the jet.

“We found it,” Sam radios to Steve. “Their quinjet’s in hanger five, north runway.”

On command, Clint’s arrow flies from overhead, breaking the webbed restraints around Steve’s wrists. Lang leaps out of thin air, flipping backwards with Steve’s shield, handing it off to him.

“Party’s getting started,” Sam says, tucking the tablet away. “Time to roll.”

The three of you begin sprinting through the terminal, towards the hanger, as Tony and Rhodey lift off from the ground. Out the corner of your eye, you see the red suited figure swing past. He lands with a thud on the glass roof of the terminal and begins to crawl along it.

“What the hell is that?” Bucky breathes out, nearly repeating your question from earlier.

Sam huffs, his breath shaky from running, “Everybody’s got a gimmick now.”

Just then, the glass shatters, raining down around you as the figure comes hurtling into the terminal. His feet connect with Sam’s chest, sending him flying backwards. Bucky throws a punch in his direction, but the unknown figure catches his fist with ease.

“You have a metal arm?!” He asks excitedly, examining it, and you realize that he’s just a kid. “That is _awesome_ , dude!”

Seeing Sam soaring towards the entangled pair, you teleport yourself out of the way as he scoops up the masked boy. They struggle in the air as you and Bucky continue to run towards them in the direction of the hanger.

You hear the kid yell out, “You have the right to remain silent!” just before Sam shakes him off. The boy flies through the air before shooting out a string from his wrist, swinging himself up onto a rafter. He and Sam continue to play a game of chase mid-air.

Focusing your mind, you transport yourself onto the kid’s back.

“Whoa!” He shouts in surprise, swiveling his head to look back at you. “Where did you come from?”

Sam uses his distraction as an opportunity to fly through the air, delivering a kick to the kid’s midsection. As the boy tumbles backward, the force loosens your grip around his neck, sending you flailing in free-fall. You teleport yourself next to Bucky before you hit the ground, the two of you taking cover behind a thick column in the middle of the airport. Bucky grunts, picking up a large piece of debris and hurtling it at the kid.

“Hey, buddy!” He calls out to Bucky from across the room. “I think you lost this!”

The two of you peer around the column just as the kid sends the broken panel flying back at you. Bucky grabs you roughly by the shoulder, pulling you down out of its path.

“Thanks,” you tell him, looking up through your lashes to meet his eyes. 

“No prob—,” he begins, but a loud crash and the sound of bursting glass causes you both to jump back to your feet.

Across the room, you see Sam with his hands webbed to a glass barrier, the suited-up kid perched on the side of another column. Teleporting yourself onto the boy’s back yet again, you pull back your knee, jamming it squarely into his back. He yelps out, dropping down off the column, as you transport yourself from his back onto the floor directly in front of him.

“Aw man,” he complains childishly. “I really hate hitting girls.”

You can’t help but smile a bit at this, even as he lifts his leg up to kick you. Seeing it coming, you teleport yourself behind him, giving yourself an opening to catch him in the back with your first this time. He whips around in your direction, but you’re already on his other side. Rearing back your arm to elbow him, he surprises you by sensing your next move. Catching you by the plane of your arm, he launches you across the room. He’s strong—enhanced.

As you land with a loud thud against the wall, he yells out, “Sorry, ma’am!”

“I don’t know if you’ve been in a fight before,” Sam tells him irritatedly, “But there’s usually not this much talking.”

“Alright, sorry. My bad.”

Struggling to gather yourself up, you see the kid shoot out another web, swinging from it towards Sam. Bucky jumps forward in an attempt to shove Sam out of the way, but the kid’s feet connect with him, shoving both men through the glass barrier. They land with a groan on their backs on the floor below. The kid swings up above them again, shooting out a web that cements Bucky’s metal arm to the floor.

“Guys, look, I’d love to keep this up, but I’ve only got one job here today, and I gotta impress Mr. Stark… so, I’m really sorry.” 

He flicks his wrist in their direction, readying himself to shoot another sticky web, when Redwing connects a cable to his arm. Sam’s mechanical bird sends him flying out of the terminal, glass shattering in his wake, as the boy yells out.

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” Bucky asks Sam from his position pinned to the floor.

There’s a pause before Sam says, “I hate you.”

“I hate both of you,” you tell them, teleporting yourself to stand over them. They lift up their heads to look at you. “Either of you have a knife?”

“In my left boot,” Bucky says, watching as you suddenly appear in a kneeling position beside him. You reach your hand down into the length of his boot, feeling around for the knife hidden there. He tenses at the contact. Brushing your fingers against the material of his sock, you find the knife’s hilt and pull it out.

Leaning over his prone body, you begin slicing away at the webbing around his hand, breaking it free. Bucky lifts it up, flexing the fingers of his metal hand.

“Thanks.” His eyes burn blue in contrast to the pink that colors his cheeks.

Humming in response, you transport yourself to kneel beside Sam next, cutting him free in the same manner. Extending one of your arms out to each of them, you help pull them up with a groan.

“Come on,” you tell them, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“No shit,” Sam huffs from beside you as the three of you break out into a run. “We just got our asses handed to us by a twelve-year-old.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, you reach the bottom floor of the airport terminal, scrambling towards the door marked _Emergency Exit_. The alarm rings out behind you as the three of you barrel through the opening, sprinting out into the light of day. Up ahead, you catch sight of Steve leading Wanda, Clint, and Lang in a running charge towards the hanger. Your feet pound in rhythm with the erratic beating of your heart as you join up with them, the entire group now moving as one cohesive unit.

A beam of light draws a line in the concrete ahead of you, causing your feet to skid to a stop in avoiding it. You look up for its source, finding Vision hovering in the air above all of you.

“Captain Rogers,” he calls out, his voice calm and rational. “I know you believe what you are doing is right, but for the collective good, you must surrender now.”

It feels as if your heart is in your throat as an assortment of superheroes lands on the other side of your group, just across the line Vision has scorched into the earth. Tony, Rhodes, Natasha, T’Challa, and the masked kid all stand before you.

Sam looks to Steve. “What do we do, Cap?”

You just barely hear his response over the noise of your heart’s hammering beat in your chest.

“We fight.” 

He begins to stride forward and you follow in spite of your stomach twisting in a sizable knot. As Tony’s cohort begins to approach from the opposite side, Steve breaks out into a charge. You let out an exhale before doing the same, seeing Tony’s side following suit.

Tony’s iron fist collides against Steve’s shield as chaos breaks out around you. Natasha grapples with Lang to your left as you spot the Black Panther exchanging blows with Bucky. 

_Here we go again_ , you groan internally.

Teleporting yourself behind the Wakandan prince, you sweep your leg out, knocking him to the ground. Bucky looks up at you in surprise and you offer him a smile, recalling how you’d both been in this same situation just this morning. T’Challa recovers quickly from the fall, tucking himself into a roll and springing up on his feet.

He looks between the two of you on either side of him, wordlessly, before launching himself at you in one graceful motion. You transport yourself to stand beside Bucky as T’Challa’s leg sails through the empty air where your body had been less than one second ago. 

Bucky charges at him now, and you use the opportunity to drop yourself down on the other man’s shoulders. As the two men exchange hand-to-hand blows, you wrap your thighs around T’Challa’s neck tightly. Thrusting yourself backwards with all of your body weight, you manage to flip the prince back with you.

Just before hitting the concrete, you teleport yourself to land on top of the man as his back connects with the ground. Grabbing onto your shoulders, he rolls himself over on top of you in one deft motion as you begin to deliver blows to his midsection with your knee. His arm draws back as he moves to punch you in the face, but Bucky barrels into him, tackling him away. The two entangle themselves in a fight, rolling around and exchanging punches.

You’re just pulling yourself back on your feet when a blow from behind knocks the breath from your chest, sending you sailing through the air. A sticky string attaches itself to your arm as you’re hurtled forward with the force of the blow, catching you mid-air and hanging you by the wrist from the wing of an airplane. In the rush of the movement, you see the kid in red swinging from the same string.

Suddenly, Steve’s shield comes whirring past your ear, cutting through the kid’s string like a knife. You fall to the ground faster than your reflexes can respond, rolling your ankle in the process. Yelping out at the pain, you force yourself up as you watch Steve and the kid begin to grapple with each other. 

As they struggle back and forth, the kid swings down under a shipping container. Taking advantage of this position, Steve knocks his shield into the metal pillar holding it up, causing the container to fall directly on top of the boy. For a moment, your stomach lurches forward, thinking he’ll be crushed, until you see him squat, lifting the heavy container as if it were just a particularly heavy dumbbell. 

_Jesus_.

Steve utters something to the kid before nodding, taking off in the direction of the quinjet. You lift yourself up on your feet as the pressure of your weight on your ankle makes you want to scream. Noticing that the kid is beginning to lift himself out from underneath the shipping container, you teleport in front of him in an attempt to stop him from pursuing Steve.

“You still in high school?” Curiosity gets the best of you as he finally rolls out from beneath the weight of the container. It smashes noisily to the ground behind him.

He nods, jumping onto his feet. “How’d you know?” Flicking his wrist in your direction, he shoots out a string of his webbing at you, but you teleport yourself out of its path.

Landing on your throbbing ankle again, you grit your teeth. “Your voice,” you say before teleporting again, dropping yourself back down on his back to finish your sentence. “You sound young.”

“Mr. Stark was right,” he says, reaching around to try and grab you by the arm like before, and you quickly appear in front of him again as he shoots another web at you. “You are really nice.”

You teleport yourself to the opposite side of where he had aimed his web, avoiding his blast. “What else did he tell you?”

He swings forward, using his web to propel him. “Says you’re smart, think on your feet.”

You huff, barely managing to dodge a kick he directs at you in time. He lands on his feet just inches in front of you but doesn’t make a move to launch himself in attack—you have a clear shot at him. 

Noticing a moment of hesitation on your part, he blasts you with a web. The force of it sends you flying backwards into the shipping container. Groaning at the impact, you attempt to teleport yourself away but realize that the boy has entrapped you. Struggling against the webbing, it feels as though you’re cemented in. There was no getting out of it.

“He also said you wouldn’t want to hurt anyone if you thought you didn’t have to,” the boy calls over his shoulder at you, swinging quickly out of sight. 

Cursing Tony in your head, your earpiece begins to buzz with Bucky’s voice. “We’ve gotta go. That guy’s probably in Siberia by now.”

“We gotta draw out the flyers,” Steve responds. “I’ll take Vision, you get to the jet.”

“No, _you_ get to the jet!” Sam yells back, and you see him fly overhead. “ _Both of you!_ The rest of us aren’t getting out of here.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, if we’re going to win this one, some of us might have to lose it,” Clint’s voice carries over on the comms.

You lean your head back in frustration, resting it on the cool metal you’re trapped against. You know he’s right. Steve has to know it, too.

“Alright, Sam,” he concedes. “What’s the play?”

Sam says the team needs a big diversion, and Lang steps up to the plate. He tells Bucky and Steve to run towards the quinjet on his signal, muttering something about the possibility of ripping himself in half. 

Moments later, you gasp as you see Scott appear probably sixty feet tall just across the strip.

_Holy hell._

“I guess that’s the signal,” Steve says over the comms.

“Guys,” you say into the radio channel. “I’d love to help, but the kid’s got me stuck to a shipping container.”

“A little busy here,” Clint grunts back. “Give me a second.”

You can’t see anything happening behind you, but there’s a loud crash as some part of the airport’s infrastructures crumbles to the ground. Seconds later, you hear Wanda cry out in pain. 

Facing ahead, you watch as Scott begins to sway on his feet, the kid’s webs winding around his legs. Losing his balance as the boy suddenly yanks his webbing forward, Scott falls backwards. With a thundering noise, his large body crashes into a grounded plane.

“Steve?” You call out into the earpiece, taking in the disaster around you. “Bucky? Please tell me you guys made it to the jet.”

You get your answer as you see the aircraft emerge from the hanger, gliding off into the sky. Tony and Rhodey zip through the air, following it closely, as Sam trails them. 

Suddenly, there’s a beam of yellow light—Vision—and you feel your heart shudder in your chest as you watch it hit Rhodes. He begins to tumble out of the sky, helplessly. As his limp body crashes into the ground, you close your eyes against the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes.

Sirens fill the air. Opening your eyelids, you watch as the quinjet flies just out of eyesight. A calvary of government vehicles, lights flashing blue, enter your field of view. The airfield is a mess of crumpled planes, shattered glass, burning debris, and the battered bodies of your teammates. Taking in the view of it all, you know that this is the end—the end of this life you’ve known for the past year, the end of the Avengers.

A black car screeches to a halt in front of you as agents, dressed head-to-toe in black, jump out. They swarm you, guns drawn at the ready. There is nothing you can do. There is no where you can go. Across the strip, you see that they’re already placing Lang in cuffs. 

As the agents approach with handcuffs intended for you, dread washes over you as you see that they’re carrying the collar, too. The cool metal of it presses into your neck as they clamp it tightly closed. 

As they cut away at the webbing encasing your body, you don’t even attempt to fight them off. Your shaking hands are placed in the cuffs as you watch, feeling as though you’re just a passenger in your own body. 

From overhead, there’s the loud roar of an incoming aircraft.

A helicopter touches down on the airstrip as the agents guide you towards it. Pushing you into the cabin, two agents strap you into a seat next to Lang. Neither of you speak as Clint, Wanda, and Sam are all shoved inside with you. The doors are closed shut from the outside, and the chopper begins to lift off into the sky. You feel Sam’s eyes on you, but you can’t meet them, focusing your gaze out the window instead. The view changes drastically as you fly over Europe in silence.

It’s not until you reach the sea, the helicopter trembling over the water as heavy rain and wind slaps against its frame, that your body finally begins to react to the reality of the situation.

 _It’s over,_ you repeat in your head, the sound of your own voice on a never-quieting loop. _Your life is over._

Your heart races out of control, hammering against your ribcage, as if it’s trying to break free. A cold drop of sweat forms on your temple as you realize that there’s no stopping it—it will keep pounding away until it has broken every rib in its path of escape. Your chest tightens with the speed of your heart constricting, and you become overly aware of the metal collar around your neck. It’s choking you, crushing your throat just as the Winter Soldier had done this morning. You cannot breathe.

_I’m dying._

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your lungs struggle for air, and you gasp out in a desperate attempt to receive oxygen. You’re vaguely aware of people talking, but the ringing in your ears begins to completely deafen you. Someone—maybe Sam—is shouting, the words muffled and without meaning.

 _I’m dying!_ You shout it in your mind over and over again.

Hot tears slide down your cheeks as your sight blurs. You look straight ahead, eyes roaming in desperation, but you cannot make out the faces of the people just feet from you. 

The pain in your chest is overwhelming. You cry out, looking down at your hands as you feel them begin to numb, and you feel faint as your fingertips begin to glow blue. 

Something pinches your throat, a sharp pain radiating just above the hollow of your neck. Darkness begins to spread from the corners of your eyes, just like an ink spill.

 _No, no,_ you think to yourself. _Not now._

It’s the last thought that echoes throughout your mind as the blackness consumes you.

* * *

A bright ray of light shines directly against your eyelids, and you scrunch them tighter. Groaning against the pounding in your head, you flutter your eyelids open, cupping a hand over them as a shield from the sunlight.

“Ugh,” you moan out, burying your face back into your pillow. Sam chuckles from somewhere nearby, the sound of it causing you to roll onto your side, opening your eyes.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he says to you with a smile from his seat. “‘Bout time you woke up.”

Confusion settles in as you look around you. You’re lying down in the backseat of a car, your knees tucked into your chest. You head rests not on a pillow but a neatly folded-up jacket. Sitting up slowly, you squint your eyes against the harsh sunlight entering the car’s interior through its windshield.

Steve’s hands are on the steering wheel, a black hat covering his head. As you glance up into the rearview, you see that his eyes are covered by a pair of black sunglasses. In the passenger seat, Sam’s decked out in the same disguise—a blue baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, a pair of sunglasses aiding in shielding his face.

“You snore,” Bucky tells you, causing you to snap your head in his direction. He’s seated next to you in the backseat, a red hat situated over his long, brown hair. As you look back down at the jacket you’d been using for a pillow, you sheepishly realize that it’s the one he’d been wearing back at the airport… whenever that had been.

“How long was I asleep?” You ask the men warily, deciding to ignore Bucky’s comment about your snoring.

“Long enough to miss all the action,” Steve tells you.

You rub at your tender forehead and groan. “I feel hungover.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam begins to chuckle. “Drugs tend to have that kind of affect on people.”

_Drugs?_

Suddenly, you begin to remember—the helicopter flight, the feeling of dying, the metal collar. Your hand flies up to your neck, groping at it in search for the collar. Steve seems to notice from the rearview.

“It’s gone.”

“I don’t remember—,” You begin to say, but another thought cuts you off as you glance out the window of the moving car. “Where _are_ we?”

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” Sam says, turning in his seat to face you. “But first, we gotta talk about what happened back in that helicopter.”

Your heart begins to speed up in your chest as the memory returns to you, as fuzzy as it may be.

“It felt like I was dying,” You recall, and you’re keenly aware of Bucky watching your face out the corner of his eye. “I couldn’t breathe. My heart—it _hurt._ I couldn’t see or smell or hear anything.”

“A panic attack,” Bucky names it, his voice quiet. Something about the way he looks at you, the gray of his eyes softening in your direction, makes you think that he’s experienced something similar himself.

“And then you glowed blue.”

“I don’t—,” You sputter in disbelief. The image of your fingertips, translucent and incandescent and blue, fills your mind. “That was _real_?”

“One minute you’re hyperventilating and crying,” Sam recounts. “The next, I’m starting to see the back of your seat right through you.”

You start to feel dizzy as he continues. “Then that little collar started going crazy, beeping real loud, and next thing we know, you’re passed out—solid as can be.”

The car is silent for a moment as you mull over his words, your mind reeling.

“I did it, once before,” You admit slowly. “It was right before I had that seizure, back in Berlin… I saw my fingertips glow then, too.”

“Can you control it?” Steve asks.

Shaking your head, you answer him honestly. “No, not yet.”

Sam and Steve turn to look at each other, but you can’t read their expressions. They don’t push you on it any further, perhaps figuring that you’re just as confused by it as them. With your brain still throbbing inside your skull, you lie back down on the seat, resting your head on Bucky’s jacket again.

Glancing up at him, watching as he stares out the window, you notice that his metal hand looks… different somehow. It’s darker in color and without any scratches. Curiosity overcomes you. Slowly, you reach out your hand and tap at it gently with your fingertips. Bucky jumps at the contact, retracting his hand away from you quickly.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you apologize, pushing yourself up into a seated position to give him space from you. You obviously hadn’t been thinking clearly. “I shouldn’t have done that—it just—just looked different than I remembered. I should have just asked you.”

Bucky’s eyes soften for a moment as he turns over his metal hand, facing its palm upward. Hesitantly, he places it gently in your lap. Your eyes look up to meet his, scared to upset him any further, when he smiles oddly at you. 

“It is different,” he admits, and you’re painfully aware of his eyes roaming your face intensely as you begin to take his metal hand in your own, examining it. “I, uh, had to have a new one fitted.”

“What happened?” You ask him gingerly, afraid of pushing him too far.

He bristles a bit at your question but still answers: “Stark.”

Your eyes flash up to look at Steve in the rearview mirror, and you notice his mouth set in a straight line at the mention of Tony’s name. Letting go of Bucky’s metal hand, you look between the three men. 

“What happened while I was sleeping?”

“Buckle up, girl,” Sam warns you. “You’re in for a ride.”

As you listen to Sam recount everything, you realize Steve hadn’t been exaggerating one bit when he had said you’d slept long enough to miss out on all the action. Steve and Sam had carried you and Wanda out of the raft prison nearly twelve hours ago. Wanda had insisted that Steve drop her off in Slovakia—she said she had connections there, a place where she could lay low. Steve had agreed only on the condition that she check in to let him know she was safe, and she had given him her promise. 

Just as the quinjet started to get low on fuel, Steve had gotten a call he hadn’t been expecting. Nick Fury contacted him with a set of coordinates. When the four of you arrived at the target location—a cornfield in a remote part of Canada—an unlocked SUV was waiting there for you. Duffle bags filled with doctored passports, licenses, and birth certificates for each of you, along with envelopes filled of cash, were neatly stacked in the trunk. A new metal arm for Bucky, along with a note listing a time and directions to a local hospital, lay across the backseat. 

This morning, the trio had watched as a doctor, briefcase in hand, had slipped out of the ambulance bay of the hospital at exactly the time specified on the note. She had called herself a prosthetist, Sam said, and she had removed Bucky’s damaged metal arm while replacing it with the one Fury had provided. The men had asked her to check on you, as well. After giving you an IV bag of fluids, she had told them that you’d likely wake up disoriented soon—though she couldn’t tell them exactly when.

Additionally, a letter, signed N.J.F., had been placed on the car’s dashboard. It was addressed to Steve.

“ _The world will need the Avengers again, Captain_ ,” Steve recalls its words to you. “ _Be there when it does._ ”

Your mind was working overtime to absorb everything. All of this sounded like the intricate, dramatic plot of a television show. How could this be your new reality? A week ago, you had been an Avenger, working your first undercover assignment. Now you were a fugitive on the run from every law enforcement agency on the planet.

You rub at your head, still processing it all. “And where are we headed now?”

“A safe house, here in Manitoba,” Steve tells you. “We’re less than ten minutes out.”

“Good,” you sigh out exhaustedly. “I’m about to pee my pants.”

The three men give you a look.

“You could have said something earlier,” Sam tells you. “We don’t need you peeing all over these leather seats.”

“I’ve got a water bottle,” Bucky offers, extending it towards you. When you make a face at that idea, he sheepishly sets it back down in the cupholder without a word.

“Just drive faster,” you tell Steve, and you hear the engine whine as he presses down on the gas.

So many thoughts flood your mind—your mom and Robbie at the forefront—but you push them away, resigning yourself to deal with them later. For now, you just have to put one foot in front of the other, and getting to that safe house has to be the next step.


	7. Highly Dangerous, Do Not Approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty substantial chapter—there’s essentially no action and tons of dialogue. If you’re enjoying the series so far, I’m always appreciative of your comments (and btw, I absolutely fckin’ love reading them)! I love hearing from y’all :’)

The cabin is lit only by the light streaming in from its open windows, a chill of air tempering the room. There’s a medium-sized room immediately upon entering, comprising its tiny kitchen and living area. The hum of the refrigerator tells you that there’s electricity, at least. From the look of the dust settled on the surface of the small, wooden dining table, no one had been here in quite some time.

It’s quiet, save for the creaking in the floorboards, as the four of you walk around to take in your new surroundings. There’s two rooms on opposite sides of the cabin. Walking to the door on the left, you twist the knob and find a small bedroom. It’s furnished with a four-poster, queen-sized bed, side tables outfitted with dated lamps, and a large chest of drawers. A warm-looking quilt is tucked neatly into the mattress on the bed.

Realizing that the other door off to the right of the living space must house the bathroom, you speed walk over to it and lock the door behind you. You’re a bit surprised to find that it’s actually a decent-sized bathroom. There’s a slightly-aged, porcelain clawfoot tub to left of the toilet. A walk-in shower, concealed with a faded curtain, sits in the corner of the room. Washing your hands in the sink—relieved to see there’s running water here as well—once you’ve used the restroom, you look up into the mirror and catch a real glimpse of yourself for the first time all morning.

Your hair was a mess from having been unconscious for so long, and running your fingers through its length wasn’t going to be enough to detangle it. It was in desperate need of a wash—honestly, your whole body could do with one. Every part of you, including your mouth, felt grimey.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you jokingly address the men. “I’m guessing Fury didn’t pack any toothbrushes in our overnight bags?”

Steve scratches at the back of his neck. “I guess we do need to get a few things.”

“I’ll make a list,” you tell him. “Anybody have something I can write with?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, back in the car. I’ll go get it.”

“Guess we’ll start unloading the bags then?” Sam looks to Steve, and the bigger of the two men steps forward, already on the task.

Sitting down at the dining table, you use the long sleeve of your shirt to wipe away the dust. You hear footsteps on the steps outside as Bucky returns, a leather-bound notebook and a pen in his hand. Ripping a piece of paper from the book, he places it down in front of you, handing you a pen.

“Thanks,” you tell him, settling the pen between your fingers as you begin to write _Shopping List_ at the top. He hums his response from beside you, having taken a seat at the table himself.

Adding a few bullets to your list, you mumble, “We’ll all need toothbrushes—so four toothbrushes and some toothpaste… soap… toilet paper—that’s an important one.” 

The pen glides smoothly over the paper as you jot down the items.

“You’ve got nice handwriting,” Bucky observes, watching as you work your way down the paper.

You scrunch up your nose at him, laughing out, “You think so? I’ve always thought it was kind of messy.”

“No, it’s nice,” He assures you, leaning back into the chair and folding his arms around the back of his head. His biceps flex with the motion of it and you stare, admiring them for a moment, before catching yourself, blinking your eyes away.

Steve and Sam’s heavy footsteps creak against the flooring, and you look up to see their shoulders weighed down with the straps of the duffle bags. Steve shrugs them all off but one as Sam follows suit. With the remaining bag still slung across his broad shoulder, Steve heads towards the lone bedroom.

“Y/N will take the bed,” He announces, placing the bag—presumably yours—down on its mattress.

“What?” You look at him as if he’s crazy when he emerges from the room. “Where will you guys sleep?”

Sam slaps the cushion of the couch he’s slouching against. “On these bad boys right here.”

You cast a dubious look at him as your eyes glide over the two small, dated couches and the reclining chair situated about the living space. Looking between them and back at Steve’s towering figure, you let out a laugh.

“There’s no _way_ Steve’s going to fit on one of those,” You reason with them, gesturing at his enormous height with your hands. “Not comfortably, at least.”

Steve shakes his head, ever the gentleman, but you can tell he’s considering it.

“I could curl up on one of those couches and have plenty of leg space,” you tell him. “You take the bed. I can add some earplugs to the list so Bucky won’t complain about my snoring.”

Sam pipes up, a teasing smile tugging up the edges of his lips. “Yeah, add some of those for me while you’re at it.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you turn back to Steve, your eyebrows raised waiting for his response.

“All right,” he concedes warily, stepping back into the room to retrieve your bag. “But if you start to feel uncomfortable, even for a second, you tell me and we switch.”

“Okay,” You quiet his serious tone with a promise, turning back to the running list in front of you. “Can one of you look in that bag and tell me what’s in there? I need to know what all we’ll need to pick up.”

Steve begins to unzip your duffle bag where he’s placed it on the couch, rummaging through it at your request.

“Looks like Fury was able to get our clothes somehow,” Steve tells you.

Sam huffs. “Maybe Stark had a yard sale.”

Steve ignores him, continuing, “There’s some shirts, jeans, socks… and, uh—,” he pauses, clearing his throat.

“What?” You ask him, snapping your head up from the list.

“I shouldn’t be going through this,” he says, his tone deeply apologetic. He starts to zip up the flap of the bag. Sam and Bucky are interested now, leaning forward in their respective seats and eyeing Steve quizzically.

“What is it?” You ask again, trying to control the edge of irritation creeping into your voice now. “Just tell me.”

He scratches at the back of his neck. “There’s some, uh, underwear in there—couple of pairs.”

“Oh,” you respond, attempting to temper the surprise in your voice. “Okay… and there are bras, too?”

“Uh, yeah,” He nods his head awkwardly. “Jeez, Y/N—I’m really sorry.”

“For what?” You ask sincerely, attempting to displace his embarrassment. “It’s just clothes—I don’t care as long as none of you see me in them.”

“Just clothes,” Steve repeats with a nod, but you can see that he’s still feeling uncomfortable. You turn your attention back to the ripped sheet of paper, hoping the distraction of the task at hand will help pull his mind away from it.

“Come tell me what you guys want from the grocery store.”

The three men start tossing out their suggestions, your hand scribbling across the page to keep up. You all agree that staples—milk, eggs, bread, and rice—are a priority. Bucky adds his preference for fresh fruits and vegetables, and Steve and Sam rattle off a few canned food items. For yourself, you add a jar of peanut butter to the list.

Feeling satisfied that you’ve covered all the bases, you set the pen down. “So, who’s doing the shopping?”

“I’ll go,” Bucky offers.

“No,” you shake your head. “You and Steve are too recognizable.”

“Looks like it’s me and you then.” Sam pats you on the shoulder, but Bucky disagrees, gesturing up at your throat. 

“Look at her neck.”

There were still two distinctive, residual patterns there from the events of the previous day—a purple bruise where your airway had been nearly crushed and a red ring from the metal sedation collar.

“So what?” Sam says, growing irritated with the other man.

“ _So_ ,” Bucky explains, his mouth set in a straight line, “You don’t think that’s gonna draw attention to her?”

“I can just teleport in, grab the stuff, and teleport back out,” You reason. Not missing Steve’s look of disapproval, you add: “ _And_ leave the money on the counter, of course.”

“No, that’s not what I’m worried about,” he shakes his head. “You showing up just to disappear out of thin air is bound to get noticed.”

“So, then what?” You ask. “Sam just goes alone?”

“No. Too risky,” Steve echoes what you were thinking.

“Tell you what,” Sam begins, grabbing the baseball cap Steve had set aside earlier. He holds it out to the other man as he says, “You drive, be on lookout from the parking lot. I’ll run in and get what we need.”

Steve pulls the car keys from his jacket pocket. “That’ll have to work.”

Your stomach flips momentarily with anxiety at the thought of your little group splitting up, even if it’s just for a short time. As you and Bucky follow the two men out to the car, you hand Sam the list. Once they’ve climbed inside the SUV, Steve leans out from the driver’s side window, his arm resting on its ledge.

“Store’s not too far from here.” You recall passing a Walmart about 20 minutes down the highway. “We shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“And if you aren’t?” You ask him, your eyes reflecting the worry you felt at the idea of being separated.

“We will be,” he promises you, resting his giant hand atop yours in reassurance.

Bucky folds his arms against his chest, smiling at his friend. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Steve flashes a smile of his own at this—the type of smile you hadn’t seen on his face since that last dinner you’d all shared at the compound—and you wonder if there’s an unspoken joke between two childhood friends.

With the click of his seatbelt, Steve nods a goodbye, rolling up the window as he shifts the vehicle into drive. Dust kicks up behind the SUV as it tears off down the dirt road. In silence, you and Bucky watch as it grows further and further away, finally making a left turn and disappearing behind a thicket of pines.

The sun’s beginning to lower in the distance, the wide-open sky painted in shades of pinks, yellows, and oranges. It’s quite the scene—the setting sun, the watercolor sky, and its reflection across the small, clear lake ahead of you. For miles, there is nothing else but the tiny body of water and the little cabin nestled between the pines.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Bucky’s voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“Yeah, it is,” you agree, taking it in for another moment before settling your gaze on him. “It’s peaceful.”

His face is relaxed, and you catch a glimpse of what you imagined he’d looked like before the war—soft features on a handsome, unlined face.

“Bet you can see all kinds of stars out here at night,” he mentions, eyes still glued to the horizon. He was probably right—the lack of light pollution out here would make it easy to make out the constellations.

Turning over his shoulder, he eyes the cabin, pointing at its roof. “Could probably climb up there to get a pretty good view.”

The talk about stargazing reminds you of the dream—or whatever it had been—that you had back in Berlin. It had felt so real, and after yesterday, you were beginning to wonder if that’s because it wasn’t something from a dream at all. A tiny shudder rips through your bones as you remember how it felt to hold that star in your hand, the warmth of it having burned against the flesh of your palm.

Bucky notices your reaction, misinterpreting it. “Scared of heights?” He seems almost amused by the idea.

“No, it’s not that. I just—,” You start to tell him about the dream, but you stop yourself mid-sentence. Looking into his face, the gray of his eyes emanating nothing but patience, you understand that it’s yourself that you don’t trust with the words—not Bucky. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he quirks up an eyebrow at you. 

When you don’t offer up anything else, he doesn’t push the subject further. Bucky seemed to be good at that—finding and respecting those boundaries. He knew how to create a space where someone felt safe to choose to be as vulnerable or as closed off as they needed.

“Come on,” you motion for him to follow you back inside, making your choice to invulnerable. “Want to help me put away these clothes?”

“Sure.”

He helps you carry the duffle bags containing everyone’s clothes into the bedroom, setting them down on top of the soft, patterned quilt.

“There’s plenty of space,” you note, pulling open the drawers of the wooden dresser as you examine it. “We should be able to fit everyone’s stuff in here pretty easily.”

Returning to the bags, you begin to unzip yours, laying the folded clothing out on the bed. Bucky’s lips turn up into a teasing grin as he watches you remove your undergarments from the bag.

“It’s funny, ya know,” he starts to laugh as you gather the pile of clothing up in your arms. “The look on Steve’s face earlier—guess some things haven’t changed.”

Seeing your hands are full, he holds the top left drawer open for you to deposit your clothing in as he continues. “Steve never did know how to talk to girls.”

“He didn’t seem to have a problem talking to Sharon,” you remind him playfully as you begin to unzip another bag—Sam’s from the looks of it.

“Should have seen him when we were kids,” Bucky reminisces, watching you arrange Sam’s clothes on the bed. “There was this time—we couldn’t have been more than sixteen—when we were riding the bus out to Ebbets Field, catching a Dodgers game. There’s this real young girl, not much older than us, just getting harassed by some older guys.

“They’re whistlin’ at her, calling her ‘ _sweetheart_ ,’ asking if they could follow her home,” he recalls. “Just really upsetting the girl—she was damn near crying. Before I could even say a word, Steve’s tellin’ them to get lost. He was probably ninety pounds soaking wet, not much taller than you, but he took every last punch.”

You stop folding for a moment, turning to watch his expression as he continues with the story. That wistful smile hasn’t left Bucky’s face once.

“By the time the kids got tired of pounding on us and took off, Steve looked like hell. The girl, though, she was so damn grateful, she kissed him right on the cheek. Steve starts rambling about dances and dates to the picture shows, scared the poor girl off… but I didn’t think he’d ever shut up about that kiss.”

You can’t help but to smile picturing it in your mind—a pre-serum Steve, defending a lady’s honor, sporting a black eye with red lipstick marking his cheek.

“That does sound like Steve,” you admit, starting to gather up Sam’s clothes in your arms. Bucky helps you with the drawer again as you say fondly, “I guess he’s always been sweet.”

“‘ _Sweet_ ,’” Bucky repeats with a chuckle from beside you. “Guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“He _is_ sweet,” you tell him seriously, and Bucky eyes you for a moment, reading your expression.

“You know, before he kissed that blonde yesterday,” he starts, watching you carefully as you start to unpack Steve’s duffle bag now. “I was starting to think that maybe you and him were a thing.”

Nearly dropping the pair of jeans in your hands, you turn to Bucky and ask, “You thought me and _Steve_ were a thing?”

He shrugs, laughing at your reaction. “Why not? He cares about you, and you seem to care about him.”

“I _do_ care about him,” you tell Bucky. “He’s my friend.”

“And is Sam your friend?” He questions, his tone a mixture of teasing and seriousness.

“Sam would flirt with a rock if it had boobs,” You tell Bucky with an eye roll. “Get that drawer for me?”

He nods, pulling it open as you place Steve’s folded clothes neatly inside. Returning to zip open the last duffle bag on the bed, you pull out a series of men’s clothing you don’t recognize.

“These must be yours,” you tell Bucky, beginning to set the folded t-shirts on the bed.

“I got those.” He gently grabs the shirts from your hands, taking up the task himself. Happy to take a break, you plop down on the bed next to items he’s busy stacking and arranging.

“They see me as a kid,” you tell him, picking up the conversation again. “I think they sometimes forget that I’m a full-grown woman.”

“You don’t look like any kid to me.” He doesn’t meet your eyes, focused still on gathering up his clothes, but there’s something about the way he says it that sends your stomach into a somersault. His voice sounds deeper, almost.

As stacks the clothes, you can’t help but stare at his large hands. For just a moment, you imagine what they’d feel like gripping at your waist. You immediately force that thought from your mind as he looks up at you.

“Wanna open that bottom drawer for me?”

His eyes settle on the pinkness in your cheeks as you manage an, “Uh, yeah,” lifting yourself off the bed and towards the dresser. He places his clothes inside, and you notice he’s sorted them in the order that you’d put them on when getting dressed. He’s both efficient and organized—perhaps something he picked up from his time in the military.

“What now?” He closes the drawer, turning to you.

Rocking back on your heels as you look around for something to do, your eyes land on the tiny, boxed TV set on the dusty entertainment system across the living area.

“Let’s see if we can get anything on TV.”

Pressing the button to turn on the power, you smile as it comes to life, the speakers projecting sound across the room. There’s an old Western show playing, the actors pretending to exchange gun fire in a sepia world. You change the channel, a local news station appearing on the screen.

Bucky’s plops down on the couch directly behind you, leaning back into its floral-patterned cushions. You drop down next to him, mindful to leave space between the two of you, as you draw your knees into your chest.

The news anchor begins to read off the teleprompter as grainy security footage plays behind her head.

“Officials in Germany have released footage from what U.S. Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross is calling an ‘unsanctioned and botched attempt’ by Tony Stark to bring Captain America, along with his known associates, into custody.”

Burying your head into your knees to avoid reliving the destruction displayed on the television, you hear the woman continue: “Several enhanced individuals were taken into custody at the scene, but the BBC has just reported that three former Avengers have since escaped from a top-secret, maximum security prison.”

Peeking out from your behind your legs, you see images of Steve and Bucky flash across the screen as the woman says, “The three escaped individuals are believed to be in the company of the disgraced Captain America, Steven Rogers, and the Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Jesus,” Bucky groans from beside you.

“Wanda Maximoff, a Sokovian native,” she narrates as a photo of Wanda is shown, “Along with The Falcon, Samuel Wilson, and Y/N Y/L/N, known as Glimmer, are considered to be highly dangerous. The public is encouraged to report all sightings of the fugitives to the toll-free hotline number below, but officials are warning civilians to not approach.”

Bile rises up in your throat at the sight of your photo on the screen, and you think you might be sick until you hear Buffy scoff out a tiny, incredulous laugh from beside you.

“ _Glimmer?_ ”

“What?” You ask, your mind still spinning. 

He points at the TV. “They called you Glimmer.”

“Shut up,” you warn him, the heat rising to your cheeks. 

“How’s anyone supposed to believe that someone called _Glimmer_ could be ‘highly dangerous’?”

“I know,” you groan out, throwing your head back into the couch in frustration. “I hate it—it’s stupid.”

A smile spreads easily across his lips as he laughs.

“No, it’s _sweet_ ,” he teases, repeating the word you’d used to describe Steve earlier.

Rolling your eyes at him, you repeat his own words back to him. “Guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“Seriously, how’d you get stuck with that?” That playful smile’s still on his lips, but you can tell he’s genuinely curious.

“It’s a long story,” you tell him. “I guess someone on this news station said something like, ‘If you watch carefully, you’ll see just a _glimmer_ of her appear,’ when this video of me went viral. It just suck for some reason.”

“Viral?” Bucky repeats the word, wondering aloud at what it means.

“Yeah, like it just exploded on the internet,” You explain. “It was all over Twitter, Facebook, YouTube… they even tried to get me to come on Good Morning America.”

“What was it?”

“It was the first time I ever teleported.” You replay that day in your mind as you describe it to him. “We were at a gas station, Robbie and me—Robbie’s my brother. I remember we were looking at all the different chips… we were going on a trip for Spring Break… when we heard a gun go off. A man was yelling, telling everybody to get down. I tried to pull Robbie down, but I guess he’s a lot like Steve in a way—protective, never can back down from a fight.”

Bucky’s eyes are burning into you, steady gray beams, as he listens.

“He was coming around the corner of the aisle when the guy pointed the gun directly at his chest. People were screaming, running towards the door, but I couldn’t move. All I remember is wishing that I could get to him before the bullet did, imagining myself tackling him to the ground… and before I knew it, there I was next to him.

“The bullet grazed me,” you tap at your left shoulder with your finger, indicating the exact spot. “I just remember being so angry and scared. I think the guy must have been thrown off by me just appearing out of nowhere because he hesitated. All it took was me imagining myself on top of him, taking that gun out of his hands, and I was just… there.

“I didn’t even know I could do that,” you tell him, your eyes starting to water a bit in the emotion of reliving that day. “I mean, I knew that I had been feeling… different… for a while. Something had been off about me, but I was too scared to see a doctor… I thought maybe I was just getting sick again.”

Bucky looks like he wants to ask what you mean by that, but taking in the pained expression on your face, he doesn’t push you.

“I tried to go back to living a normal life after that. I even tried to go back to school, teaching as a graduate assistant as if nothing ever happened, when Tony showed up. He flew me out to the compound… he saw something in me, I guess. He changed my life.”

Tears are burning in the corners of your eyes as you think about Tony now. He had been the first person to make you feel like what you could do was something special, something with potential beyond just a fifteen-minute segment on nationally syndicated talk shows. It was because of Tony that you’d met Steve and Sam and Nat, Wanda and Vision, and had found a home in that compound.

“I’m sorry about Stark.” Bucky’s voice is husky with regret. “It’s my fault. If Steve hadn’t—,”

“Steve made a choice, and so did I,” you cut him off sharply. “Tony made his, too.”

“It’s more than that,” he tells you seriously. Something in the way he says it gnaws at you—it’s more than just self-deprecation or shame. There’s a truth to it. Something had happened between Steve, Bucky, and Tony that you didn’t know about yet.

Before you can ask any questions, a car door slams shut outside. You hadn’t even heard it pull up. Jumping at the noise, Bucky sits up straight. He tenses, ready for a fight, as you teleport yourself to the window, peering outside.

“It’s them,” you tell him, watching the two men beginning to unload plastic bags of groceries from the trunk of the car. Bucky immediately begins to relax his body. 

You appear behind Sam and Steve’s backs as they’re bent over into the trunk.

“Need help carrying those?”

Steve jumps, turning to you with a stern expression. “Jesus, Y/N.”

“Sorry,” You apologize, gesturing to the bags in their hands. “I just thought it’d be a lot faster if I take these inside.”

Sam agrees, handing you an armful of the bags. In less than a second, you’re at the dining table, setting them down.

“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Bucky blinks.

“You will.” Throwing him a smile before disappearing from the kitchen, you transport yourself back to the car. It takes two more trips of popping in between the car’s trunk and the kitchen before all the groceries have been unloaded.

As you drop the last of the bags on the table, you see Bucky already going through the bag of toiletries. Arranging the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, soap, and face wash on the table, he makes a face.

“You really need all this?”

Reaching around him, you gather up all the bottles in your arms. “Yes, I do.”

“Come on, man,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you’ve been using that three-in-one stuff.”

“The _what_ stuff?” Steve asks amusedly.

“Body wash, shampoo, and conditioner in one bottle,” you explain.

“What’s wrong with that?” Bucky asks offendedly.

You exchange a look with Sam, the two of you chuckling at the same time. Bucky looks annoyed and, noticing, Steve butts in.

“All right, go get a shower,” he tells you. “We’ll finish putting everything away.”

You wouldn’t argue with that—you felt disgusting after the events of the past two days. Shutting the bathroom door behind you, you strip off the blue prison uniform you’d still been wearing, looking at yourself in the mirror. Your suit had absorbed most of the impact from the fight at the airstrip, and despite the soreness throughout your body, the only signs you had ever been in a fight were the patterns at your neck and the cut on your lip.

Turning the water on, you wait for it to warm up before stepping inside the shower. When you feel those initial, warm droplets hit your face and chest, you nearly moan out at how good it feels. Lathering up the soap in your hands, you work it into your skin, intent on scrubbing away the dirt and grime of the last forty-eight hours. Massaging the shampoo into your oily scalp feels even better, and you’re careful to avoid the tender spot at the base of your skull where you’d fallen back in Berlin.

Berlin. It had only been yesterday, but it had already seemed like it had happened in another lifetime. You supposed that’s because it did—you were someone else entirely then. Your thoughts swirl in your head as you think about how much has changed in so little time. The enormous changing tide of it all would have drowned you by now if you hadn’t been so intent on pushing away those thoughts, focusing on the next task while putting on a brave face.

Now, alone behind the curtain of the shower, the water muffling the men’s conversation in the next room, you allow yourself to feel it all.

You had agreed to come to the compound, to become an Avenger, because you wanted to protect people. Hadn’t Tony brought you there because he believed you were capable of protecting the earth’s vulnerable?

Self-disgust rises up within you, churning your stomach, at the thought of how wrong he’d been. In the nearly six weeks since he’d officially welcomed you as an Avenger, you’d done nothing but hurt people.

Images flood your brain.

Rhodey’s limp body falling through the sky. Tony’s face as he stood across from you at the airport, realizing before you ever did that crossing that line would mean the end of everything. Steve’s face in the car at the mention of Tony’s name. The photo of you on the news, the woman’s voice echoing in your mind: _highly dangerous, do not approach._

The air vacates your lungs as you envision your mom and Robbie, watching the news together. Your mom would be devastated—she had probably called your phone, long confiscated, a hundred times by now. She’d be scared for you, as if she hadn’t felt scared for you enough in her lifetime already, and it would be Robbie who’d have to comfort her. Robbie, so young and yet having had to bear so much weight on his shoulders already, would have to take on the responsibility of being your mother’s keeper now. 

More than anything, you wish that you could just pick up the phone and talk to them. Even if your mom’s voice would break into sobs, even if Robbie’s words would shake with anger—you just wanted to tell them that you’re okay, that you love them, that you’ll find a way to get back to them someday.

The tears fall so quickly that you can’t tell where they end and where the water from the shower head begins on your cheeks. It feels good to let them spill from your eyes, though, to let your body shake with the quiet sobs that wrack through your tiny frame.

The conditioner rinses from your hair, the soapy swirl of it vanishing down the drain. You’ve been in here long enough, you realize, turning off the water and pulling back the shower curtain. Looking at yourself in the mirror as you wrap your body in a towel, you realize you already look better than you had just ten minutes before—save your puffy, red eyes. Dabbing at them with the towel to wipe away at any remaining tears, you pull yourself together.

From the kitchen, the smell of something roasting fills your nose. Right on queue, your stomach growls, reminding you that it’s been almost two days since you’ve last eaten anything.

Based on how good it smells, you guess that Sam’s been doing some cooking.

* * *

Bucky pulls the handle of the oven down, peaking inside to check on the food. The chicken’s skin is browning nicely, and the vegetables look as if they’re almost ready. Grabbing four plates out of the cupboard, he begins placing them down in front of where Sam and Steve already sit talking at the table.

“Steve?” Her voice shouts from the bathroom, breaking him away from his discussion with Sam.

“Yeah?” He calls back, a worried expression on his face. 

“I’m going to change in your room,” she tells him. Almost instantly, he looks relieved. 

“All right.” He nods, looking up as Bucky pulls the sheet from the oven with a mitted hand. “Food looks good, Buck.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky laughs, running a hand through his long hair. “One of us had to learn to cook.”

“And it definitely wasn’t you,” Sam directs a joke at Steve. 

As Bucky places a chicken breast and a portion of the vegetables on Sam’s plate, he says, “Thanks, man.”

Bucky nods his response as he places food onto each of the remaining plates. He’s just sitting down at the table, directly across from Steve, when the bedroom door creaks open.

“I’m starving,” she tells them, bounding up to the table dressed in a t-shirt and sleep shorts. “It smells _so_ good.”

As she scoots behind Bucky to sit in the chair beside him, he catches the scent of her clean, wet hair. It smells like coconuts.

“You alright?” Steve asks her from across the table, and when Bucky turns to look at her, he sees what’s spurned the question. Her eyes are puffy, the redness around them giving away that she’d been crying.

She nods as she cuts into her chicken. “Yeah. I just needed to process everything.”

“Understandable,” Sam says in between bites. “The last couple of days have been hell. I might need a good shower cry myself.”

He watches her smile, grateful that Sam hadn’t made her feel odd or embarrassed about it. Wilson wasn’t all _that_ bad, Bucky supposed.

She’s already halfway through her chicken when she says, “I don’t know if I’m just starving or if this food’s perfect, but I can’t stop eating it.”

Bucky feels his chest swell at her compliment. Even if she didn’t know he had been the one to make the meal, it still felt good to be praised—to do something positive. Looking at her content face, chewing so eagerly beside him, he realizes he’d cook every single night if he was guaranteed to get that same reaction from her.

“You always eat like that,” Sam teases her.

“As long as Steve’s not cooking,” she jokes back, scrunching her nose up in the direction of the large blonde.

Bucky laughs. “If you can call that cooking.”

“Hey, whoa!” Steve puts up his hands in mock offense. “Knock it off you two.”

Giggling to herself, Y/N backs off, finishing up the food on her plate. Peering around her shoulder at the cookware on the counter, she stacks her empty dish with them and begins washing them in the sink.

“Just bring me your plates when you’re done,” she tells the group, her back to them.

Steve approaches her with his empty plate, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Three adult men can wash up their own dishes.”

“I know,” she says with a laugh. “But I also see three adult men in need of showers.”  
  
“Alright, fair enough,” He concedes with a chuckle of his own. “I’ll make it quick.”

“Good,” Sam says from the table. “‘Cause if I have to take a cold shower, I’m not gonna be happy about it.”

“One of you want to help dry these dishes?” Y/N calls over her shoulder as Steve turns on the water in the bathroom.

Bucky’s already pushing himself up from the table, two empty plates in his hands. “I’ll do it.”

“Think I’m going to see what’s on TV then,” Sam decides.

Bucky watches as she scrubs at the plates with a sponge, turning them over in her hands to make sure they’re spotless before handing them off to him to dry. The two of them work in silence, washing and drying, neither feeling the pressure or need to talk. He noticed that she seemed to be lost in her thoughts as her hands go through the motions.

From behind them, the noise of Sam sorting through the different channels captures her attention. “Is that Family Feud?” She asks him, handing off the last of the dishes to Bucky to dry.

“Yeah,” Sam nods from the couch. “You wanna watch?”

She’s already walking over to join him as Bucky finishes drying the plate off with the dish towel, putting it back in the cupboard where it belongs. She’s sitting on the middle couch cushion, next to Sam, as Bucky drops down beside her.

“Name something you might bring on a first date,” the host tells a panel of contestants.

From beside him, Y/N calls out, “Flowers!”

Sam nods. “Good one.”

Bucky listens in amusement as the contestant repeats her answer: “Flowers!” The word appears across the screen as the contestants begin to clap and cheer, gaining points for naming a correct answer.

The host repeats the question to the next contestant. They think for a second before answering, “Breath mints!”

Sam and Y/N nod their heads, seemingly approving of the answer. Again, the panel of contestants begins to cheer as the word is revealed on the blue scoreboard.

“How much you wanna bet ‘Condoms’ is up there?” Sam says as the host moves on to the next person.

“ _On the first date?_ ” Bucky asks, his eyebrows knitting together. “No way.”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Y/N tells him with a laugh, a relaxed and easy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He takes in her side profile, the glow from the TV casting her features in its soft blue and green lighting as she’s fully engrossed it. The lines crinkling around her eyes tell him that she’s someone who finds the humor in things often.

Feeling a pair of eyes on him, Bucky glances past her and sees Sam giving him another one of those shit-eating grins—the type that were starting to become the bane of his existence. Cutting his eyes at the man, he turns back to the TV just as the door to the bathroom opens and Steve steps into the room.

“I’m pretty beat,” he says, throwing his towel over his shoulder. “Think I’m going to head to bed.”

“Alright man,” Sam nods.

“Bucky and Sam might want to grab their clothes out of there before you get too settled in,” she reminds them. 

Seeing the two move off the couch and towards the room, she adds, “Could one of you grab some pillows and blankets from the linen closet while you’re in there?”

Both men nod, moving into the room as Steve follows behind. Opening up the linen closet after grabbing their change of clothes, Bucky and Sam grab a couple of blankets and pillows between them as had been requested.

“Night,” Steve calls out to the group. Everyone responds with goodnight’s of their own as he shuts the bedroom door closed, turning out the light.

“One of you can go ahead and shower,” Y/N says as she begins to shake out the pillows, fluffing them before gently placing one on each of the sofas and recliner that would serve as their sleeping places.

“Go ahead, Barnes,” Sam offers. “I’m trying to see if the Reyes family is gonna walk away with that 2015 Toyota Camry.”

Bucky hears Sam and Y/N reminiscing about watching game shows with their families as he shuts the bathroom door behind him, turning the shower knobs on. Stripping out of the outfit he’d been wearing for days now, Bucky steps into the steady stream of water and sighs out. The warm water feels incredible against his tired muscles.

Noticing all the bottles on the ledge of the shower, he grabs the shampoo and squirts some into his palm. As he lathers it into his hair, his nose is flooded with the scent of coconuts—the scent of _her_. The conditioner and body wash smell just the same, and as Bucky scrubs at his skin with the soap, he realizes that he’ll probably carry the same scent when he’s finished showering.

Turning off the water, he steps out from behind the curtain and towels off before sliding on a pair of flannel pajama pants and t-shirt. Just as he’s starting to spread the toothpaste on his toothbrush, there’s a light knocking on the door.

“Uh, Bucky?” She says softly through the door. “Can I come in and brush my teeth before Sam gets in there?”

“Yeah, sure,” he tells her as he unlocks the door, letting her in. As she slides past him to slip through the doorway, she places her tiny hand on the small of his back. Bucky feels himself stiffen at her touch, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

He watches as she begins to brush her teeth, toothpaste on the corner of her mouth, as he brushes his own. Catching him glancing at her in the mirror, she wipes at the wayward toothpaste with her thumb and laughs at the sight of herself. Bucky can’t help but feel his heart skip a beat at the sound.

Rinsing her mouth out with water, she spits into the sink and wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand before heading out of the bathroom. Bucky finishes up and follows behind her. Looking around, he realizes that while he’d been in the shower, she and Sam had been busy setting up everyone’s sleeping areas.

“Sam’s already called dibs on the recliner,” she tells him as she settles down onto one of the couches, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

“And don’t even think about asking to switch,” Sam says as he passes through the room, clothes in hand, towards the bathroom.

As the door shuts closed behind him, Bucky lies down onto his assigned couch, propping himself up on his elbow to watch the TV. He could see her, hair scattered haphazardly on her pillow, lying on the couch across the room. Family Feud was still on, but new families now competed.

“So,” he begins. “Did condoms ever make it on the board?”

She giggles, causing Bucky’s heart to flutter again. “They did—along with lipstick, money, and wine.”

“Jesus,” he laughs out, shaking his head. “Guess I haven’t had to think about taking a girl out on a date in a long time.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” she says with a yawn, angling her face on her pillow so that she can face both him and the TV. “I don’t think any of us will be doing much dating any time soon.”

She was right, of course. Bucky hadn’t dated in this century, but he imagined that being on every governmental agency’s Most Wanted List probably wasn’t something most ladies were lining up excited about. He turns back to the TV, watching the families participate in an endless cycle of clapping and cheering and saying “good answer.”

He begins to hear a light snoring from the other side of the room. Turning on his side, he sees that she’s already fast asleep. Bucky smiles to himself at the sight of her clutching the blanket to her chest like a teddy bear. 

The light of the TV flickers in and out, illuminating her features in bursts, and it’s like he’s suddenly seeing her for the first time. Dark lashes rest against the planes of her cheeks, her lips parted slightly. She’s beautiful—so beautiful that it makes his chest hurt.

The bathroom door cracks open, the light from it sweeping across the room as Sam steps out. Looking between Bucky and Y/N asleep on the couch, he mumbles something and lowers himself into the recliner.

“She been asleep long?” Sam asks tiredly, lowering his voice as not to wake her.

“Probably since the beginning of this episode,” Bucky tells him, gesturing at the TV with a nod of his head.

Sam’s quiet for a moment until he says, “Look, man. I’ve got eyes—I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at her.”

“ _What?_ ” Bucky whispers, offense dripping in his voice. “I haven’t been looking at her.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Oh, you most certainly have.”

“No, I haven’t—,” he begins to argue back, sitting up on the couch.

Bucky can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes in the darkness of the room.

“I know I don’t know you very well, but Steve does. He put his ass on the line for you, and in my eyes, that must make you a pretty stand up dude,” he says, his tone serious. “But I _do_ know her, and she’s good—damn near perfect. Before you even think about her in any kind of way, you better get your head on straight, because you give one wrong look in her direction… there’s not a thing Steve could do to stop me from kicking your ass.”

“I’m not thinking about her in any kind of way,” Bucky insists, his voice an agitated whisper.

“Whatever, man,” Sam gives up, settling back into his pillow. “Get some rest.”

Even as he lay there, the beginnings of sleep tugging his eyelids closed, Bucky knew he had been lying through his teeth. He _had_ been looking at her. In fact, he was finding it impossible to stop. The image of her in the bathroom mirror, toothpaste lingering at the corner of her lips, wouldn’t leave his mind. 

Thinking of her, that bit of toothpaste at her lips, Bucky drifted off to sleep with a smile.


End file.
